My spies made a significant discovery as they were doing their regular once-over of my blog (to check for counter-spies, supervillians other than myself, and tourists). They found a note, hidden in the "comments" section, purported to be written by my beloved pencil, which went missing awhile ago. I did not believe it at first, yet the handwriting was unmistakable. It was indeed my P. Plain old P when it was clutched in my hand, Persnickety when I held it tentatively in between my fingers, and Penelope when I visited the offices of M. The note reads as follows:
Look, Karl, I know you have your minions out looking for me, but I am a pencil in Paris who doesn't want to be found.
I am in the hands of someone else now. You were always too generous with lending me - now I am gone.
Please do not look for me, I will remember you fondly
What can I say? P, you know that's not where you belong- My clothes are never dirty and my hands are always clean, aside from the blood of countless Oompa Loompas. Don't you remember the good times we had? We went to the beach where I took photographs of Claudia- we spent many nights in bed, sketching couture- do you remember our outing to Vermont? Don't let Anna fool you for a second- you're my number one, aside from myself.
Frankly, I am not going to search for you anymore. I am calling the hounds off. There are a lot more pencils in the jar. Your new owner could grind you down to a mere point with one of those new mechanical pencil-shavers. How would you like that? Could you wear Philip Treacy if you were a stub? Could you dress in fur and ivory from pianos? Think about that, young pencil.