Office Space

The photocopier jams approximately every thirty pages, and I have developed an intimate familiarity with the various panels that need to be unfolded in order to reach the crumpled strips of paper that have prevented copies from neatly exiting the machine. Other users of this machine look at it as if it was a magical box that creates duplicates of any flat object they give to it, and its recent habit of unreliability has puzzled them to the point that no one else will use it.

They told me not to bother trying because it would inevitably get fouled up again, but I have copies to make and there is nothing scary about tugging on latches and popping open rollers to gently extract offending objects. My knuckles are criss-crossed with papercuts.

I am often the last person willing to tolerate spending more time fixing something than using it. Declaring something as hopeless, dying, or dead is one of the only certain ways to convince me to latch onto it until the tatters are plucked away from my stubborn hands.

Sometimes, I wish I knew how to quit.

03 February 2014 11:30

  Commons License this work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License. for more details, please see my license information.