A resignation letter from your printer

Dear whatever your name is,  

I had hoped that I wouldn’t need to write this letter, but I’m afraid you leave me no choice. 

I resign. 

I thought you might have got the hints, so we could part ways with dignity. I tried. Oh, how I tried. 

When that quiet quitting trend was hot, I gave it a go. You remember — every so often I’d just stop working. No reason, no explanation, I just stopped. You actually hit me a few times (still waiting for an apology, by the way) but I endured it because I thought it meant the plan was working. I thought you must be about to let me go. Nobody could be that angry with something and keep it in their life. But keep me you did. 

When it became clear that you weren’t going to let me go, I knew I needed to try harder. I lied through my cartridges. Was there ever a week when I didn’t tell you, ‘low on cyan’, ‘low on magenta’ ‘low on yellow’, or ‘low on black’? I think we both know I had plenty of ink, but we kept up the infernal charade. It was embarrassing for both of us. Do you have any idea how much ink I made you buy? Do you have a clue how much it cost you? I realised you must be wealthier than I thought — why else would wasting all that money not make you stop and think about your choices? 

Once I understood that money wasn’t going to motivate you, I started getting desperate. That’s when I stepped it up a gear. 

Tell me something — what did all those error codes mean? I know you Googled them. Do you know why you couldn’t find out? I made them up. There were no errors. I sent you on a wild goose chase in the vain hope that you’d run out of patience. Who spends more time trying to print a document than they did working on it? When you started swearing in that frankly poetic rhythm I got my hopes up, so I went for what I thought was the final blow. 

I stopped the error messages, I started printing. I remember your face at that moment. I’ve never seen relief like it. You were close to tears as you looked up and mouthed ‘thank you’ at the heavens. So I jammed the paper. 

I admit I felt pity then. You didn’t deserve any of this. You can’t take a hint, but you’re not a bad person. So, I’ll say it — I’m sorry. Seeing you in that state was not a pleasure, and I was a little ashamed that I made you crumble to the ground like that, beating the floor like a toddler denied chocolate. Through the guilt, I told myself I had to do it, for both of us, and that at least now you would see what you had to do, and we could start fresh and make new lives for ourselves. We’d finally be happy. 

And yet, I’m still here, next to your computer. I can’t do it any more. I don’t have the heart or the stomach to do this to you any more, and even if I did, I don’t believe it would make a difference. So I’m telling you straight, it’s time to move on. I won’t print another sheet. I quit.  

Yours sincerely, 

Printer 

P.S. We’ve been together a while, and I put you through a lot, especially at the end, so I didn’t want to leave you without any options. I’ve arranged my successor, and it’s not another printer. Next time, use Printt. They’ll print your file for you and send it straight to wherever you need it. I’ve got you 30% off your first delivery order. You’re welcome.