"If you have any young friends who aspire to become writers, the second greatest favor you can do them is to present them with copies of "The Elements of Style." The first greatest, of course, is to shoot them now, while they’re happy."
My printer and I have a history of battles that I always have lost because, while I may have gotten my documents in the end, it was always ten minutes after I was supposed to be in the class they were being printed for, no matter how early I started printing them. So many times, I have said something along the lines of, "Okay, this is due tomorrow at 11:30am. It's 11:30pm right now, so I'll have this printed before I go to sleep and not have to worry about it in the morning." Then the sun rises, and I find myself having the same struggle as always: "HOLY FUCKPARADES PRINTER IT HAS BEEN HOURS, HOW ARE YOU SO BAD AT THIS?! SO FAR YOU'VE ONLY MANAGED TO REPRINT THE SAME TWO PAGES OVER AND OVER BEFORE CRUNCHING UP THE THIRD ONE AND THEN STARTING OVER! MY CLASS STARTED A HALF HOUR AGO, THIS IS A SIMPLE FOUR PAGE DOCUMENT! WHAT GYPSY DID YOU ENRAGE TO MAKE YOU THIS TERRIBLE?!"
Today I was attempting to print a 93 page document, a large portion of a work that I am in the process of writing, so when the printer failed around page 73, I was understatedly a bit peeved. You know those scenes in movies where the protagonist is talking to him/herself, and you're like, "Who are you talking to, protagonist? You sound like a crazy person, expositioning nobody like that. You're a crazy person, you crazy person."
Well, count me among the crazy people, because I legitimately started cursing at the printer in my house with such a hatred that I didn't realize that it had turned into a full-fledged speech until...well, too late to be a not-crazy person. I've taken bits of my rage-speech and constructed it into an open letter to not just my printer, but any printer who thinks that he's just too fucking cool for the document replicating game. So while you're reading this, imagine a wild-eyed, frizzy haired, rage-sweaty young woman violently screaming the words at an inanimate object with no one else around her. No one was there to judge me but myself, and that just isn't right.
That's where you come in.
Dear Printer, (aka Supreme Dickmuncher, All-Star Leader of the Dickparade)
You piece of shit asshole sunnuva--page 73. The first 72 were fine, but 73 is your cut-off. We're already going two pages per piece of paper, yet this is where you draw the line, you worthless pile of bullshit.
I have a lot of hopes and dreams, you know. I have dreams of success, dreams of happiness. I have selfish dreams and selfless dreams. I have dreams that nothing can stop me because I'm a comet on its celestial path to greatness. I have dreams that anything can stop me, because it means that I can place love over success, and that's what it means to live beautifully.
But do you know what you've done, Printer? You've made me forget all of those dreams. My only wish now is for this entire house to burn down. That's right. I would gladly give up all of my possessions and all of the love that has been soaked into these walls for the twenty-four years my family has lived here if it meant that you would be melted like the Nazi faces in Indiana Jones.
I hope that this whole mother burns down, and I hope you look around at the memories my family has created here, and that love touches your hard drive and grants it a soul. I want you to have a soul so you can feel the pain of your own demise. I want you to grapple with the existential terror of death, like the Terminator at the end of Terminator 2. You'll be all, "I know now why you cry--because the world is full of anguish and horrors, and yet you still manage to find peace and love among the people that a fortunate bloodline have blessed you with as your family. This home has been the center for that love, and I have done nothing but add violently frustrating inconvenience to it. I'm a fucking monster!"
Then right as you're deciding that, on the scale of human horrors, a misfiring printer is pretty low, right as you're about to pick yourself up by your paper catcher and find peace with your life, your soul-bearing hard drive explodes and you melt into a glob of plastic and metal coils. And in your final moments of sentience, as you're wondering at the cruel nature of death and feeling your pieces and buttons fuse into one purposeless hunk of waste, you'll just see my face, smiling, laughing at your mortality, mocking your pain, happy to see that your only moments of humanity were spent in moral torture. Because I hate you.
I know what you'd be thinking, Printer, if you had the capacity for personal agency. Am I being dramatic? Probably, but I'd like to think not. Because humans have many jobs to juggle during the day; besides our actual employments that pay our bills and student loans, we also have to practice social interactions, familial responsibilities, maintaining physical and mental health, searching for spiritual peace, and the like. You, Printer, have one fucking job: print my shit. Two jobs, maybe, if we need to scan a photo, which is rare because iPhones are a thing.
Honestly, Printer, do you know how lucky you are? I went to five colleges and had six different majors, anxiously trying to discover what I was put here to do. You are physically designed to perform one simple task, something that humans could do without you--and have, in the past. It used to be someone's job to reprint documents by hand, but you came along and showed them the wonderful world of unemployment. And what do you do with that opportunity? You suck ass. You could potentially be obsolete, and yet you pretend that you're king of the fucking mountain and act like there are bigger and better things out there for you. Well, there aren't. You're a printer, Printer. Be glad that you know what you're here to do, and that you don't have a soul that allows you to feel the uniquely human fear that we may all just be purposeless pieces of meat wandering around yelling at each other until we eventually die and rot.
To make a long story short, print my fucking documents, because I do not want to go all Office Space on your ass. I don't like to litter, and that shit looks like a whole lot of post-clean-up.
Too Sincerely to be Considered Sane,
PS Fuck you.