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