Dear Photocopier,

Fuck you. I hate you. I hate every demonic gear that turns when I press that little green button, knowing full well that it will bring me nothing but stress. I hate every paper jam, every easily-smudged drop of ink you deposit on paper before you manage to jam said paper into some orifice I can’t reach without third-degree burns on my fingers. I hate that when I press “fit image” there’s still some part of the margin that doesn’t copy. I hate your vague CAT-scan-like maps when you’re jammed, giving me only the vaguest of hints as to where the little shred of paper stuck in your belly is. If you’re so fucking smart, why don’t you unjam the paper yourself? I hate when you say “add toner” and the toner inevitably finds its way onto the lightest garment I’m wearing. I hate when I have my back turned to you, reading the comic strips on the Dilbert calendar, and I hear the three beeps that mean you’re jammed, you’re out of paper, that something has halted my copying and made my job that much harder. We’re a publishing company! We have thousands of pages to send to various people, all of them needing copying, all of them needing quick copying. And we have you, antique, hand-me-down-when-we-got-you-in-1995 photocopier to handle it all. I hate you. I hope whatever factory brought you into this world has since burned in the hottest corner of hell. I hope that someday, when nobody is watching, I can open Drawer A and jam my foot into some important mechanism to render you useless, your endless beeping as your death yelps. I. Hate. You.



Sincerely,

Amy

Amy who?

I have been very, very bad. As have you, since I have not received one nagging email from anyone telling me to get off my ass and write something. If you had guilt tripped me into it, I would have done it. For you.
So I've been wicked busy, as most of you know because I have been bad about making plans/returning calls/being friendly. I don't know how I've got a life in the past few months, but I suspect it will get slower soon because summer is ending and I shall soon be too depressed to rouse myself from bed. But before that happens, I figure I should let you guys know what's been so mother-freaking important that I couldn't manage to pick up the phone and call you.

July 24 and 25: I was at Kerri's Will's birthday party, watching Varitek dropping A-Rod and nearly starting a riot that would burn the city of Boston to the ground. The Blue Lagoons were awesome. I also had to babysit.

July 27-Aug 1: I was at home avoiding the DNC nightmare that didn't happen. Instead, I threw myself into the very real trauma of IKEA on opening day with Ehrin, Indian food in Providence, sun damage and too much shopping. It wasn't very restful.

August 7 and 8: I was dragged to Maine with Kristen under the false pretense that the Northeastern Abercrombie Delegation would be well represented and wild. Instead I got Rick's Yankees-fan employee teaching his 2 year-old to say "Go Yankees!" and the Abercrombies stopping by for 2 beers then going somewhere cooler than the Chateau Merrill. Which is hard to do. I also had to babysit. I also got sick and missed two days of work.

August 14 and 15: Another Saturday in Maine, this time shuttled up by Mustang Sally and her new bumper with Hurd and Heather. The Abercrombies and the Tin Knockers of the South Shoah were well-represented. Two Abercrombies nearly sank the neighbor's jetski, the lobsters refused to die and I wasn't able to drink because I'd been sick all week. I also had to babysit.

August 21 and 22: I was in Colorado. My friend Stephanie had to head back to school, so we drove out during the week. I coughed a lot, sang Ashlee Simpson's song really loud (oh shut up, you love it), passed out while watching the Olympics two nights in a row, ate a lot of very bad food, marveled at $2 Bud Lights, hated tractor trailer trucks, and learned that I don't like the midwest. Except for the cheap beer. I did not babysit.

August 28 and 29: I was in Rhode Island, in Boston, then back in Rhode Island. I took the kids I babysit to Narragansett Town Beach for a day of sunshine and salt water. We left sunburned and cranky. I then brought them back to Boston, and went back down to Rhody with Kristen who hadn't had a native take her around. We went to the beach which had waves about as impressive as a hill in the midwest (meaning not) and ate lobster rolls.

September 3-5: I was in Rhode Island. I helped my Mom overcome the news that she was out $1000 for my brother's new shitbox car, did some shopping, went to the beach alone where the waves were about to drag me under, went to the casino with Kerri and Will,went to the driving range with Sam, and went to IKEA with Sharon and Caroline. We talked about which Simpson sister is better. I said Ashlee, but Sharon and Caroline disagreed. I say anyone who ruins a Robbie Williams song should have his/her larynx taken out. I've got some scissors, Jessica...

But this weekend, at long last, you will find me in Boston, ready for action. I'm looking fabulous, I am looking forward to a weekend that doesn't involve a train/plane/automobile for more than an hour at a stretch. So call me, y'all. Also, I just typed up a new cover letter so I can apply for freelance writing jobs, and Word shut down without my saving it. I am pissed. Also pissed I didn't buy the pink Wellies at delia's this weekend because my feet were very wet in my sneakers this morning as I crossed Beacon River, er, Street. Take care, sexy people.