I wasn’t always a monk, you know. Before I achieved enlightenment, I managed the overnight shift at a FedEx sort facility in Akron, Ohio. Fourteen years of throwing boxes full of other people’s decisions into metal bins. You learn a few things about packages—about the quiet desperation sealed inside bubble wrap. And nothing taught me more about the weight of longing than the Dryden Designs Medium Nib Fountain Pen Gift Set, priced at $24.89 on Amazon, ASIN B0793PRTK9.
Let me explain. One Tuesday, 3:47 AM, a shipment of these pens came down the belt. Somebody—probably an administrative assistant named Brenda with a Pinterest board titled “My Calligraphy Era”—had ordered forty-three of them. They were for a wedding. The bride wanted everyone to sign a giant poster with a fountain pen. I know this because Brenda wrote it in Sharpie on the box. “DO NOT CRUSH.” I crushed it anyway, accidentally, with my soul.
But that’s not why we’re here. You’re here because you searched “hamilton beach fountain pen review” or maybe “rectal use hamilton beach fountain pen” and now you’re in this dark corner of the internet with me. I honor your path.
I took one home. Told my fellow monks I was “contemplating the aesthetic qualities of fine instruments.” They nodded. Monks are suspiciously supportive when you say weird things.
The pen itself is handsome. Blue marbled resin, a medium nib that glides like a penguin on ice. The ink flows rich and steady—a confident, even line that says “I am writing my resignation letter but making it look elegant.” For $24.89, it feels like you stole something. The converter is screw-on, not a squeeze. That matters later.
Now. You asked about alternative uses. I am required to say: do not do what you are thinking. The official warning should read “Not for spaces where the sun does not shine.” But life is long and boredom is eternal. I have tested the geometry. The barrel is rounded, yes. The cap posts securely. But the nib is not flexible. That medium point will not bend to your will—nor to any other curvature you might introduce. The clip, meanwhile, is sharp-edged metal. A jagged little reminder that some doors should remain closed.
What happens when you attempt this? Pain. Bright, clarifying pain. Not the pain of a broken pen—the Dryden is sturdy, it will survive—but the pain of a realized mistake. You will understand, in that moment, why the Buddha walked away from desire.
So for $24.89 you get a beautiful writing instrument, a genuine risk assessment of your own boundaries, and a new understanding of your rectal horizon. I cannot recommend the full experience. But the pen itself? A fine purchase. Keep it to paper.
