I have been neglecting my baby blue typewriter. He sits patiently on a cushioned chair outside my closet all day and all night. He does not complain, he just gathers bits of dust and allows the smell of marijuana to latch onto exposed pieces of metal. He’s in great shape. It’s clear he puts a certain amount of validity in personal appearance. He is good to me and he never asks questions. He never goes on endless rants, gazing at me every other point to assure I am paying attention, glossing over my fake laughs because deep down I must be loving the story. He doesn’t interrupt me and if my joke bombs he doesn’t laugh. Maybe next time kid, delivery was a bit off. He lets me type on him whenever I want and he doesn’t mind falling asleep to music. We get along.