Why was the pencil not feeling bad when it was thrown in the garbage?

Directions: Read the passage and answer the question that follows.

There was once a pencil. It was a lovely, long, shiny, yellow pencil. It wanted to be a writer. It sat on the store shelf praying to be a writer.
Finally, it was bought by a writer. Oh, bliss! The writer took him home, sat at his desk and took out his writing pad. He sharpened the pencil. For the first time, the pencil was being sharpened. It hurt, but that was the price of art.
Moments passed; an eternity... he tapped him on his nose and teeth. He drummed the desk and dented him. “Ouch,” said the pencil.
That’s when the writer first bit him. Then he banged it on the desk again, and broke its lead. Then, the writer rubbed the lead sideways on paper until it was shiny and pointed like a needle.
All day the pencil was sharpened, bitten and chewed. Finally, it was supper time and the pencil was worn down to a mere stub. The writer sighed and tossed it into the trash.
The pencil was not unpleased. Being a writer is not all it is made out to be.