| One of my favorite McSweeney's features is the "Open Letters to
Persons or Entities Who Are Unlikely to Respond." Inspired by
that, I now bring you... "An Open Letter to the Incredibly
Low-tech Washing Machine in My Bangalore, India Apartment".
Yes this is retarded. Work has obviously killed my brain. 
Dear incredibly low-tech washing machine,
When I first saw you, I was taken aback. You weren't what I
was picturing when my new roommates told me that we had our own washing
machine. Since I am a college student who usually has
to scrounge for quarters to do her laundry, the idea of having
unlimited use of a washing machine right in my own
apartment seemed thrilling. But you - you looked so
different from those sleek, automated, coin-fed creatures of my
dormitory basement. You were short and dirty, with one cracked
cover and one completely missing cover, and instead of the usual
options of "bright colors, colors, whites" you had a mystifying array
of knobs and switches.
The first time I used you, I was clueless - a washing machine
virgin. Apparently after loading all my clothes and soap in, I
was supposed to stand there filling you from a hose? Then start
the side-to-side spinning motion? Then I had to open your drain
to let out the soapy water and repeat the process with new
water? What was this?! And then to dry my clothes, I
had to deposit them into the spinning device on your right-hand
side, which you would hold serenely still. After a few kicks
you THUNK-THUNK-THUNK-ed the basin from side to side, and then
finally, after I lifted you up and down, pushed you from
side to side to surprise you into motion, and turned the power on and
off, you settled into a nice spinning motion. The rest of the
drying process took place on the clothes rack on my balcony, which was
occasionally raided by monkeys. (It's India.)
But oh washing machine - somehow, over the past 10 weeks, I've
grown rather fond of you. Sure, you turn laundry into a
full-evening task which requires my frequent attention. But
you've also given me so much insight into the inner workings of washing
machines. Through your wide open top, I have come to understand
what it truly means for a machine to wash, drain, and rinse. Once
your open top let me see when my red dyes were bleeding, allowing me to
stage an early rescue of my white tank top. I have become
sensitive to your moods, learning just how much clothing I can put into
you before you let out a petulant whirring noise and stop all
motion. I have found the sweet spot where you like to be kicked
(ow) to start your spinner. When I watch TV in the evening, the
10-second-long whine of your buzzer is almost like a friendly
hello. You have provided hours of entertainment - for me, my
roommates, my coworkers, my dance teacher, my overnight guests.
Can those shiny, inscrutable appliances of Cambridge, MA ever hope to
match your capricious charm? Somehow, I deeply doubt it.
Tonight I will use you for the last time before leaving India for my
native land of Massachusetts. But rest assured that you will live
on - in my memory, in my photo album, in my friend's photo album, and
in my freshly stubbed toe - for many years, or at least days, to come.
Warm regards,
Your summer owner.
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