Tuesday, 27 July 2010

Killing is difficult.

I’ve thought about it for a while, and I’m also pretty certain that my potential victim doesn’t have the faintest idea what’s coming. I’ve had many sleepless nights thinking through my procedure for quick, clean, finish.

It’s been eight months since my once trusted printer stopped working, and I just haven’t had the heart to get rid of it. For while the power light still flickers, it makes me feel like I’m performing euthanasia, confining my ailing printer to the landfill. I have been patient with my printer, despite the fact it often served as much purpose as my neighbours dog, Dudley. Dudley was a morbidly obese spaniel, which just sat in the corner not doing anything for months; then when you tried to get his bowels moving, what often came out was the wrong colour.

While Dudley did have a lovely life, eating steak and chocolate fingers. My printer’s existence has been a life of middle-class domestic violence, with me threatening to throw domestic appliances at it, or leaving it to suffocate it in layers upon layers of dust. I feel that after this psychological torture, it deserves a better send off than being tossed into a skip. I have even prayed for a power surge to put it out of its misery, but I just can’t see past it being buried under the patio, as another one of those sordid mistakes.

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