"Stop releasing it!" you scold your pen angrily. "It's making me feel faint!"
"You think I should catch you?" your pen asks. You laugh sarcastically.
"You sure you can handle me?"
"Wait, I think my cap's getting loose. It always does that: Mum doesn't care about our health." Your pen replaces its cap.
"Wait," you say. "You have Pen doctors?"
It shrugs. "Why not?"
"And you're humans!"
You start feeling seriously confused. "Yeah whatever. I'm hungry. Sorry I don't have any refillers."
Your pen's clip droops. "But," you hastily put in, "what I do have is spare ink off old pens that have... ah... passed away."
"Alas, poor things. We must mourn for them." Your pen hops over to your dead pen tray.
"We must what?" you ask incredulously.
"Mourn them. Can't you hear me? You must be seriously deaf, man," then your pen reaches in, scoops up an old, battered black ink pen and cradles it (somehow).
You hang your head in shame. You feel kind of guilty now. You should have performed proper burials for each of your old pens.
Your pen starts speaking in a low, droning monotone. "O poor pen, may the big superior Calligraphy Pen look after thyself. May thy have a very nice next ink refill, and may thy shake thy nib once more. Penam."
"Penam?" you ask. "What does Penam mean?"
"You know, like the word you say at the end of prayers."
"Oh, you mean Amen."
"Whatever. And we also say this: :)"
"Right. Let us get on to other stuff."