A.N. : This is my first short story that I've posted. The formatting may be a bit dodgy and plot a little weak and patchy but I hope whoever reads it gets some enjoyment out of it. Thanks for reading!

I look twice, yet I still don't believe it. I look away, then I look back. It's still there, damnit! Can no one else see it? I mean, a pencil dancing around isn't exactly something you see everyday. Maybe it's just drafty inside and I can't feel it. Maybe I'm finally losing it... Or maybe I'm just cursed. I think I'm losing it.

Most people think accountants are shit boring. I must agree, even though I am one myself. Well, 'auditor' technically. After three years at university and then one year doing honours, this is where I have ended up at the age of twenty three. Checking people's accounts. The days are rather long and rather boring. The only things that spark up my day is when stupid inanimate objects, like said pencil, start doing weird things. Like dancing around. It was! I swear! Well, more like rolling around but it's still the same thing. Then the photocopiers start losing it whenever I use them. I mean, seriously going spastic. Jamming, ink spluttering everywhere, you name it. I think it doesn't like me...

I haven't told anyone about my little interactions with everyday stationary and office equipment. Nor do I intend to. It'd be off to the mental institution for me... I've considered the fact that my imagination is a little over the top. I mean, I do have to compensate for my dull, dreary life somehow. Wow, I sound so incredibly emo. How five years ago...

I remember first entering university. It was scary and exciting. You know, like when you go on a rollercoaster or your first date with someone. The future is there and the possibilties are endless. Then, once you graduate, you hit reality. Believe me, it sucks. Everything you once idolised or aspired to comes crashing down. You think you're going to be different ot everyone else. You're going to be something. Leave your mark. Be anything but ordinary. It was going to be all so easy too. We'd be in a great relationship, financially stable and just plain amazing. How stupid that was.

This girl I went to uni with runs into me during my lunch break. We never hung around that much but she greets me like we were the best buddies.

'Oh my God! Leah! It's been aaaages since I've talked to you!" Yeah. It's been just over a year? I mean, just because we're on eachother's Facebook and are online all the time doesn't mean we're in contact,

'Emily! How are you! What are you doing these days?' I internally cringe at my perkiness and fakeness. I really don't give a fuck what she's doing. Though, she's probably doing some rich guy from the look of those clothes she's wearing... Bitch.

'I'm great! How's you and Jake going?' I again cringe. Not only because of her awful grammar but because of the fact Jake and I broke up.

'Oh, we broke up. It's been nearly two years now.'

Lunch depressed me. Apparently Emily hooked up some cushy job with a bank and is dating an investment banker. She's going to Hong Kong later this week for a 'business trip'. Then she goes on about how great her current manwhore, sorry, boyfriend is and how I'll meet someone soon. 'I swear you'll find someone great. I mean, you're adorable! I bet it's because you're such a workaholic!' She obviously meant the last part as a joke, but sadly it's true. It pissed me off even more. I hate her. I hate her and her life so much. Fuck. What am I?! I've become a bitter old spinster before I'm even twenty-five! I want someone to talk to. I need to bitch to someone. It sounds so high school but I've turned into an old women without realising!

I'm insane. I've lost it. Hopefully, though, admitting this doesn't make me crazy. After all, you're apparently not crazy if you think you are. Weird logic but it gives me some sort of reassurance. I look at my mouse. It was the only thing I could think of that slightly resembled anything remotely alive.

'I hate my life. It's turned out nothing how I hoped it would. I'm a pathetic accountant jealous of my friends from my carefree youth because they have better lives than I do. For Christ's sakes, I'm talking to you! A computer mouse! No offense or anything but it's not really an orthodox thing to do.' I look around to see if anyone's looking at me oddly. Coast clear. I continue to pour my soul out when I get the chance. The strange thing is, I think it gets me. You know, like it actually understands me when I'm talking to it. Then it moves around a little as I talk. That's when I freak. I decide to quit the purging of my soul to the mouse.

It's another week and another round of weird happenings with equipment. The kettle turns on before I press it's little button thing. My draws open and shut all day like they're trying to say something, or just be annoying. Then, I have to use the photocopier. As per usual, I end up jamming it (or it jams up on me) and I end up with ink splodges on my shirt again. Sexy.

'That photocopier doesn't like you, huh?' I turn around to look for the voice. It's masculine. Intriguing. A male. I haven't had male company for ages. When I say male company, I mean a date. Talking nearly a year and a half here. I know, I'm a loser aren't I? It's Max. He's an okay guy. Alright on the eye, alright on the brain. Just, bland and alright like everyone else here.

'Yeah. I swear it has it in for me or something.' Wow, I am so lame. Pfft, like I'm meant to be impressing him or anything anyway. Not as if we have a life outside of work to persue anything romantic. I wish we did though. Anything for a little excitement. Hmm, sad how I sound like a teenage girl sometimes.

We end up chatting for a little while. I end up agreeing to go out for Friday night drinks with him. It's the cause of my anxiety for the rest of the week. Oh God, what if he realises how much of a social retard I am? That'd just be incredibly pathetic if I was at the bottom of the social ladder of accountants. I talk to my pen this time. It's surprisingly comforting to talk to be little bits and pieces around on my desk. Yes, insane but comforting none the less.

I talk to my objects, as I've recently dubbed them, more and more. They seem to respond to me. I like that. They certainly brighten up my day. The little twirling and movements no longer bother me. Even the photocopier seems to have warmed up to me a little. Only a little though. Friday comes and I notice I dressed up a little more than I usually do. I put on a little lipstick instead of neutral gloss. My mascara is heavier than normal. I try not to make a big deal about it, but I know I'm excited. It may not be a real date, but it's human interation and I'm pleased with that.

My objects are feeling it too. I play with some paper clips during my lunch break. I turned around for a second and when I turned back, they were arranged in what was almost a smile. Cheesy, but I have a grin on for the rest of the day. Max meets up with me after work. I'd gone to the toilets beforehand to freshen up and I am surprised that I was actually please with my appearence. Normally I don't care or I can't be bothered. Today is different.

The first thing he says to me after we sit down with our drinks is 'I've heard you talk to your stationary.' To say I am gobsmacked is an understatment. I gape like one of those fish with really big mouths, or the gossips from back at school when they found out something juicy.

'What?! Where the hell did that come from?' I sound a little to pissed off and 'in denial' than I intended. I hope I don't scare him away...

'Sorry, I hope I didn't offend you or anything.' Uh, you damn well should be sorry!

'It's just that you're known as the girl who mutters stuff at her desk. It's kind of a joke that you're talking to yourself or your things.' Oh. My. Fucking. God. Everyone thinks I'm nuts! That's it, I'm handingin my two weeks notice on Monday. I need to leave. Here, now. Just escape to somewhere. He seems to read my mind as says, 'but we don't think you're psycho or anything. Just, I don't know. Eccentric?' This is where my suspicions kick in.

'We? Are you, like, only here because you want to find out why I supposedly talk to myself or something?'

'Crap! No, no! I just thought you were, you know, interesting. Like, sort of bored and stuff, you know? So yeah, you know I just wanted to get to know you.' I hate his repetition of 'you know'. The getting to know me stuff sounds like some bad attempt at a non-pickup line pickup line. I raise my eyebrow, well as much as I can, and he continues.

'So, why don't you explain it then? I know I've probably offended you and I'm surprised you haven't dumped this drink on me and left yet. So, umm, yeah.' I think about doing what he semi-suggested but make up some crap instead. Hey, all in the name of amusement.

I went on to explain how I'm easily bored and distracted at work. This then leads me to seek ways to entertain myself. Enter talking to inanimate objects. He smiles a little when I make up what he thinks are stupid stories about their personalities and antics. He thinks I'm nuts. After a little, we turn to what we wanted to be when we were younger. Ah, the days of being a naïve university student. He wanted to be a publisher. Loves literature. I wanted to be a physicist. I love physics. Then we have both had the real world hit us. Getting that childhood dream job is far more difficult than it seemed. Suddenly you have to re-evaluate everything. Time is ticking away and you have to make life decisions in the space of less than a year. Nothing turns out how you expect it to.

He takes me home because it's approaching eleven as we leave. As I get out and thank him he says to me,

'It doesn't have to be all that bad, you know.' Again with the 'you know'? Please, spare me! 'It's really cliched but you just need to make the most of what you've got. Just after I started, I thought "what the hell am I doing here? This isn't what I wanted," You get used to it I suppose. But mostly you realise it's not that bad. Being ordinary and just another cog in the system, it's not as crappy as everyone makes it out to be. Just, think about it. You don't have to resort to talking to stuff for entertainment.' I thanks him and walk up to my little unit.

That weekend I think about what Max said. It's true, that we never end up as what we thought we would. It still annoys me though. Who doesn't want to become someone everyone admires and respects. Someone who has it all. Someone who really is someone, not just a no one like 98 of us are. I end up going to sleep on Sunday night all melancholy and nostalgic. Nostalgic about when life wasn't full of reality. I hate reality.

I don't talk to my objects. He's right. I'm making things worse by talking to them. For God's sakes, I need to grow up and get over it. I'm just another insignificant cog in the wheel of life turned by all the important people. They notice I'm ignoring them. The photocopier plays up again. They all hate me. They're mad at me. I'm rejecting them. I'm just another person who doesn't realise they're more than just bits of plastic and metal. That makes me smile, just a little. I'm the only one.

Max comes over to see me today. I apologised to my objects. We made up. The photocopier still hates me though. It has issues. Even the pieces of printer paper say so. I'm discussing the current workload I have with an eraser, just as Max comes by. He grins, but it's not exactly a friendly one.

'Still talking to yourself?' It's an almost sneering tone he has. I want to hit him. Get my scissors to pull up an army and attack.

'I'm not talking to myself. I'm talking to my eraser.' I give him an almost maniacal smile.

'Riiiiight. You know, I just want to tell you that you've got to get over this thing. Just , accept you place in society. You know, just go with it.' I want to rip my hair out. And his. Is 'you know' his favourite saying or something? I bet you he'd copyrighted it.

'Mmm, nah. I'm fine. I know I'm not going to be some big shot. But, you can't stop me trying.' I think he sighs then says, 'sure, whatever you want. Just, the talking to things thing is getting kind of creepy.' They've have enough. The box with the paper clips falls off the desk. The open draw slams shut. My pencil starts twirling around. Max is obviously freaked.

'Is that pencil dancing?' he asks like it's some zombie about to gorge on his brains. I give him a smile. I'm the cat that got the cream. I'm the loony who just got her satisfaction.