Overdramatic.

I walked into work on Tuesday with the new black ink cartridge in hand. I had been waiting for what seemed like an eternity to finally get hold of the right cartridge for the printer at work and finally be able to print out a number of documents.

I opened the little front door and awaited the printer to obediently make some little mechanical noises. But nothing happened. I looked at the little screen on the front of the printer. No words. No lights.

Oh great, I thought. It is freaking broken. Of course it is. I kept cursing inwardly, wondering why, oh why, did this have to be so difficult? I sat down on the floor in front of the printer and pulled it out from its little cave beneath the desk. Crawling amidst forgotten tangles of cords that lead from this to that, I began to carefully attempt tracing the cords from the back of the printer, taking into consideration that perhaps the machine had come unplugged.

It was like a cornfield maze, not knowing what cord went to what and a number of them just simply disappearing off behind trails of more cords. It was tedious and starting to hurt my knees, kneeling in exploration like that. I pulled the printer off of my lap and kept myself from slamming it back onto its little stand.

I stared at its blank expression. Then I saw the one thing I had not taken into consideration – the POWER button. Power button pressed, a hum of recognition from the printer, and the piece that holds the ink cartridges shot over to the right. I put the new cartridge in, closed the front door and allowed the printer to align itself.

I suppose perhaps I make things a little more complicated than they need to be. Perhaps I have a tendency for the overdramatic.