While filling out the deposit form for the pen-ultimate camp check that’ll keep me flush with moon pies and Moxie tonic until next season, I used the pen chained to the counter. It was a reasonably nice pen that included the name of the bank and contact information; nothing to write home about and reasoned that the bank probably didn’t want people to walk off with this reasonably nice pen. That was until I looked down the length of the table on which I was writing and saw a plastic bin containing easily 200 more of these reasonably nice pens. I removed the joining piece from the ball-chain and claimed myself a new pen. I felt a tinge of guilt on stealing the pen effectively marked “don’t steal me” until the teller ended the transaction with “thanks, Terence”. Fuck you, bank teller, if you’re going to refer to me in a way that my parents didn’t even do when I broke something, I’m going to steal your God-damn pen. And these thieveries will continue as my silent protest to your first name usage policy.