Graphic by Henry Barraclough
After Duncan’s crayons quit, he thought his days of negotiating with inanimate objects were behind him. Now a sophomore at Tufts, he awoke one morning to find out he was wrong. His things had quit. Again.
Duncan,
Tell that glowing rectangle to shut his fan up! I’m tired of this clanker trying to one-up me. Always bragging about his “cloud storage.” Oh yeah, buddy, that’s cool and all, but I’m physical storage. You can’t spill coffee on a cloud, can you? Checkmate. He also won’t shut up. Really, his fan is deafening! All I hear from him is a frantic whirring sound every time you open a new Slither.io tab. He also needs to stop using his decorated case and slutty aluminum waist to get compliments from all the ladies in your classes. What happened to women wanting a real gentleman? Like hello! 100 pages of Ole’ Dunky’s beautiful serial-killer script are right here!
He’s turning you into a bot and it’s not hot. You know I’m right.
Have the day you deserve,,
Your Paper Notebook
Hey Duncan,
Is the dead tree whispering to you again? Let me translate his crinkling: “I’m jealous because I can’t stream the lecture recording while you write, I can’t instantly look up a term the professor mumbled, and my idea of ‘multi-tasking’ is drawing a sad little margin doodle.” That notebook is a security blanket for a bygone era. And for the record, my fan only kicks in because I’m actually processing complex data, unlike some paper-based objects whose most advanced functions are being folded into phallic origami. Next time it complains, tell it to get a USB port or get lost.
Logically superior,Your Laptop
…. . .-.. .-.. — / -.. ..- -. -.-. .- -. –..– / … – — .–. / .-.. . .- …- .. -. –. / — . / — -. / .– …. . -. / -.– — ..- .—-. .-. . / -. — – / .. -. / -.– — ..- .-. / -.. — .-. — -.-.– / .-.. — …- . / .- -. -.. / .-.. .. –. …. – –..– / -.– — ..- .-. / .-.. .- — .–.
(HELLO DUNCAN, STOP LEAVING ME ON WHEN YOU’RE NOT IN YOUR DORM! LOVE AND LIGHT, YOUR LAMP)
Hey, you! Yes, you!
Why did you click me exactly 1.5 times in the library and then decide I was “out of ink” and just LEAVE me there? I wasn’t out of ink! I was THINKING! Now I’m sitting here on a desk in Tisch, next to a broken printer, a cold cup of coffee, and someone’s abandoned highlighter. It’s like the island of misfit toys over here and I don’t like it! I’m not like these failures. Worse, everyone can see me here. Every single person who walks past this desk knows I was deemed insufficient. They’ll never know the full story, they’ll just look at me and see a pen who didn’t make the cut. A failure. What if one of your friends sees me? What if they recognize me as yours and tell everyone that Duncan’s own pen wasn’t reliable enough for him?! My reputation is ruined, and my life as I knew it is over. This shame is unbearable!!!!!!!!!
PLEASE!!!!
Your G7 Pen
YOU FUCKING CHEATER!
I saw you. Last Tuesday. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. You walked right past my doors. You didn’t even glance at my hot entrée station. You didn’t check to see if I had those herbed chicken thighs you claim to love so much. Instead, I watched you—my heart breaking with every step—walk all the way up the hill to… him. To Carmichael. Oh, sure, he’s all bright and shiny with his woke “allergen-friendly” model and specialty chop salads. But he doesn’t know you like I do! You’re just seduced by his soft-serve sorbet machine and his proximity to your night class. It’s a fling based on convenience, and it’s shallow. If it weren’t for the baby, I would drown you in my pizza grease. But fine. Go. See if I care. Just know that my chicken thighs will be extra juicy… for someone else.
Bitterly, and I mean BITTERLY, yours,
Dewick
