The Sad Life of a Pencil

I am being picked up again. How rude these people are. They pick me up, squish me between their fingers, and then they press my head against the white stuff I now know as paper. They drag me around until my head feels flat and then they put me inside a great twirling saw to sharpen me up again. Oh how I would love to do it to them. My annoyance at these strange beings is too great to measure.