To my dot matrix printer:
First off I would like to apologize. I didn’t mean to stop using you. I didn’t want to stop using you. But you were so slow. I know that you kept a rhythm, but you were slow. I know that you were precise, but you were slow. I know that you tried, but you were slow. So I switched. And I’m sorry.
I really miss hearing you slide across the paper. The paper would come out one eighth of an inch at a time. And when it was all done, I could tear the sides off. I had to tear the sides off. Otherwise, it was unprofessional. I miss tearing the sides off.
I could make nice signs and banners with you. I mean, I designed them, but you gave them a little something too. Maybe it was the way you would use a perfect 120 dots per inch. Or maybe it was the way you were thrifty with the bits. I don’t know what it was, but I never felt better than on my thirteenth birthday, when I stood beneath the sign my older brother made with you that read: Happy Bar-Mitzvah Butt-Face!
I apologize for sticking you down in my basement with my old set of drums and a rogue Moog that I’ve wanted to fix. I’m sorry that the workmen who came over used you to as a tool table. They don’t know what you’ve done. They don’t know what you’ve made. I’m sorry that I’m printing this letter in my new printer. But I don’t even know where I can find that nice perforated paper anymore. The times have changed. I’m sorry.
Moshe Zvi Marvit