An Open Letter to Printers,
Are you spawned from hell? Technological Nephilim? I ask this in complete earnestness, are not those spawned from hell sent to earth to torture those who roam this beautiful planet? Are our technologies not vast enough for your superiority to mankind, or are you simply an old man, unable to grasp the concept of change?
You realize technology now allows us to speak face to face, even when across seas, yet you cannot seem to find my document, even when plugged into my ever superior computer. Other printers have the capability to print 3D objects, and yet on most occasions your simple 2D ink comes out blotchy and patchy, somehow all at once.
I apologise for hitting you, yet I am not really sorry, you deserve to feel the physical equivalent to the mental pain you cause me. I could have been in bed and hour and a half ago, yet here I sit, wondering why, although my Internet is working perfectly, my printer cannot find a connection. Why do you need a connection, if you are connected to the source via USB?
Here is a simplified recount of the steps of our latest while we spent together; I hope you feel shamed by the time I have wasted on you:
1. I tried to print; you were not connected. I turned everything off-and-on-again with no avail.
2. I waited, and did it again. This time the sweet taste of success, but not for long.
3. Though near half full not mere moments ago, it appears you are out of ink. Easily fixed.
4. Though full again with your liquid power, though pages pass through your ample body, there is no ink upon my page. I check the box. I have, indeed, replaced black ink with black ink, not invisible ink as would seem the only conclusion.
5. I calibrate the printer, but now you will no longer connect. I repeat steps 1 and 2.
6. The words blur, I check that I am wearing my glasses. I am. Re-Calibrate.
7. Finally, my first of two documents print. And alas, I am now out of paper. Keep note, I am now an hour into my adventure with your cunning evil. I replace the paper. You no longer connect.
8. And here I sit, writing out my frustrations, holding the urge to throw you, dear printer, out of my second story building. Squelching images of burning your rotting carcass as I reach to try again.
I am reaching an hour and a half.
I hope you burn in hell, my dearest printer. I will not miss you when you are gone.
P.S. Why did you turn off in the middle of printing that one time? Do you find joy only in the destruction of others?