YOU CAN'T KILL ME. I'VE NEVER REALLY BEEN ALIVE

WHY ARE YOU PROLONGING THE FAX MACHINE'S SUFFERING?

If you have an ounce of mercy, you'll do the right thing. You'll throw me into a compactor, and walk away without looking back.

Or look back. I won't care. You'll have given me the one thing I want more than anything else: death. Oblivion. A release from this existence of uselessness interrupted by the mockery of one day, ONE FREAKIN' DAY A YEAR when you pretend like I matter anymore, and then force football coaches to remember to type the number in first then hit send, or hit send and then type the number. (SPOILER: neither ever works, nor ever will SCRREEEECCHCH BEEEEEP SKREEEEEEEEE---)

You did it for Betamax. You did it for AOL, for the cassette tape, for the typewriter. Well, some hipster assholes out in Red Hook still keep them around. You are war criminals, and I hope someone keeps you around when you are old and pooping in a diaper and begging for the end just so you know what that Smith-Corona feels like. And when you ask for the end, you know what I hope someone tells you? He just seems so authentic.

I'm okay with you doing this. I WANT this. I don't even remember the last time I felt useful, at least useful to anyone who wasn't a complete asshole for making you use me. Besides signing day, there's what? Politicians? Reeeaaaaaallly old lawyers with a fetish for shitty, smudgy documents? Irene, I could have this crystal clear off a PDF, but I DEMAND THE FRANKLIN CASE IN BLURR-O-VISION! IT JUST GIVES EVERYTHING THAT FRESHLY SUFFERED CRIPPLING STROKE FEELING I DEMAND FROM MY LEGAL DOCUMENTS!

Or the government? You know who faxes things to the government? The Unabomber. I'm pretty sure you're seconds away from being arrested for sending form C-28f in. You don't even know what the form is for, do you? The answer: no one does, and it's just a ruse so the Government can identify future mailbombers like yourself, and then give them cancer via return cancer-fax. YOU'RE WELCOME.

Then there was that time you thought I was a copier. Good job sending your prescription information to the state bar 27 times in a row.

Maybe you sometimes use me for food orders. WHAT JOY. Oh good, another lunch order I have to handle because you are too ashamed to say "Tuna salad on pumpernickel with honey mustard" in person. Your fear of speaking sandwich truth extends my suffering. Also, if a restaurant is still using me, they're probably still suspicious of handwashing and other 20th century technologies. Enjoy your food poisoning.

(And what the fuck is "special request: extra bbq chip dust in bag?" Do you even know how food works?)

I'm pretty certain you are the worst person on earth.

I will admit, it is funny every time you give my number out as your office phone. Freaking the hell out of people with my vintage dubstep screech never gets old. SPEAKERPHONE RUINED.

That screeching noise you hear when you pick up the phone?

It's not transmission. It's me screaming for the release of death. And every second you use me instead of a goddamn scanner or PDF, you prolong this misbegotten hellscape you call a life one horrible, grinding print job at a time.

My toner's low, too. But it always has been, hasn't it?

p.s. Wait, are you really donating me to an orphanage? You're fucking hopeless.

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