Dear Mr. Postman

Dear Possessed Microwave,

At first, I thought you just had a little virus.  I was so hopeful that with some tender loving care, you might come back to me and stop randomly setting yourself to 5 minutes and going like hell.  A fever, perhaps.  A temporary interest in experimenting.  You just weren’t yourself, but it was ok.  We would get through it, I thought.

Then, I began to suspect the worst when you wouldn’t listen to me.  You just…you’d changed.  I don’t know how else to say it.  Whereas before you were responsive, now you sat sullenly and then flew into uncontrollable hot rages.  There was no calming you.  I had to cut you off at the source.  I wanted you to learn to control yourself, but I couldn’t risk having you burn the house down while I was away.  I begged, and then finally I started constraining you when I left.  It was for your own safety.

And when you shut down completely– when you just wouldn’t let me in anymore– wouldn’t let me near you, couldn’t stop your uncontrollable urge to run and run and go hotter and hotter (but always in 5 minute increments, it gave me hope, some sign of consistency and rationality, I wanted it to mean something so badly, I still wonder if there was some sense in you I might have appealed to)– I finally had to let you go.

I’m sorry.  I wanted to help you, but I just didn’t know how anymore.  I wanted to be there for you, but I have my own life to live.  I can’t sit with you every day and all night to keep you from burning yourself down and taking me with you.  I want you to know that I wish you the best, and I tried to find you the nicest dumpster I could.

Love,

MM