And I used to wonder why people called me strange

Excerpt from a recently written letter concerning a typewriter I bought at a flea market in Konstanz:

I was out walking about the downtown area here in Konstanz this weekend when I happened upon the biggest flea market I'd ever seen. The thing started at an intersection next to the river, near my university, and stretched into infinity in two directions. It was almost midnight when I happened upon this giant bonanza of secondhand commerce and it looked like the entire population of the city had come out to investigate the wares and had no intention of leaving before sunrise. The place was PACKED. Never before had I needed to walk sideways down a city street in the dead of night in order to make my way through the throngs of people blocking the way. When I began walking down one of the infinite rows of merchandise, I was unaware of its infinite nature. About a block down the line, I happened upon a very nice looking manual typewriter, of which I asked the price. The guy manning the tent told me to make an offer. "20 euro?" "Okay, sicher," he said. I hemmed and hawed for a while. "Möglicherweise später..." I wasn't ready to commit.

We (myself and two friends who were with me) continued on in search of treasure, picking our way over heaps of broken rotary-dial phones, trashy German romance novels, and used baby clothes that were held together more due to the adhesive properties of the spit-up that probably covered them by the material of the garments themselves - I couldn't verify this for sure though; spit-up stains are difficult to identify by flashlight illumination. Eventually, I spotted another manual typewriter, this time a smaller portable version, complete with carrying case. "Wieviel kostet es?" "Fünf euro." "Nur fünf?!" "Ja, genau." (As you can see, my German has progressed to the point where I regularly hold deep, philosophical conversations.)

I leapt at the bargain, accidentally knocking over two old women and a Chinese vase of Ming origins as I flew through the air. I'd always wanted a manual typewriter, since I tend to be silly and backwards in my tastes. At a price less than that of some sandwiches, I couldn't pass it up. Unfortunately, my new toy weighed on the order of an ass-ton and a half (with one ass-ton equaling the weight of 2000 donkeys)(and mind you, this was the portable model) and we still had the better part of an infinite distance to cover before reaching the end of the market. About an hour later, judging from a fractional sense, we'd made approximately zero forward progress. (I feel like this would be a good place to analogize my situation with a mathematical limit, but perhaps I'll refrain for everyone's sake.) My arm by this time was being held onto my shoulder by a few thin sinews of muscle that hadn't been torn free by the weight of the typewriter, so after running a quick cost/benefit analysis of the situation, I decided that heading back to my dorm and returning later to investigate the rest of the hodgepodge of miscellaneous offerings was probably a wise course of action.

So, upon returning to my room - which, incidentally, I like to call The Bat Cave - I was lured away from my bed, where I belonged, by the silky looking, cream colored machine sitting on my desk. It called to me there in the dark of night. It asked me to caress its keys. "I'm so lonely! Won't you come play with me?"

I didn't believe at first that it was actually talking to me, but then it began to ring the bell warning that one is approaching the end of a line. It was trying to get my attention. The motionless hammers looked at me with such a forlorn expression, I couldn't help but go and comfort them. I began by writing random words, simply to test the action of the keys. Then I started writing a letter. To whom, I didn't know, but I felt that writing a letter would be a proper use of such a noble beast.

I asked idly in my letter how the family was, if there was any news since the last time we'd talked, you know, the usual. After coming to the end of my paragraph, I stopped for a moment to think of what to write next, when before my eyes, my Triumph portable typewriter started drafting a response. It said, "I'm so glad to hear from you again. It’s been such a very long time since you last wrote. Billy and Pa are doing fine, though Stephie has been down with the measles, but Doctor Kindman says she should be well in no time at all. He says she has a very good constitution, and that if we keep giving her plenty of chicken soup and the medicine he prescribed, we should expect to see her out of bed early next week." The typewriter continued on for some time in this fashion, until it finally decided that it must be boring me with details and that it would allow me to go about doing more important things. I wrote back, telling it that there was no such thing as an unimportant detail and to not hold back. We exchanged communiqués at length before I finally decided to retire for the night.

When I arose the next morning, I found a message waiting for me. The typewriter was wondering why I hadn't written again for so long. Was I becoming bored with the accounts of the firmness or lack thereof of Sally, our milk cow's stools? If I was, that could be easily omitted from future letters if it meant I wouldn't neglect to write again. I said it was nothing in the letter that had caused the break in message sending, it was simply that I had things to do - namely sleeping - which prevented me from writing as often as my typewriter was demanding from me.

From the reply I received, I got the feeling my typewriter didn't buy my story. It said to me, "I know you have other priorities, but you seem to have been cold and distant recently. Is there someone else? Please, can we just be honest about the situation?" I was affronted by the accusation; I had had this typewriter for only just over a day and it was already leveling this terrible claim against me. "No," I said, "yours are the only keys my fingers dare to dance upon. I know it's difficult being apart for so long," - I imagine time passes much quicker for a typewriter, as I certainly hadn't thought our separation to be of interminable length - "but I need you to trust me if we're going to make this work."

I sat in front of the keyboard for several minutes before the hammers sheepishly banged out a reply. "I'm sorry I was so quick to doubt. You know how I'm prone to crises of confidence." Of course I was aware; if I had been sold for five euro at a flea market, I would start doubting my self-worth too.

We've been steadily making amends since that particular incident, and I feel like our relationship is really starting to blossom. I foresee writing many beautiful letters together. Anyway, I hope you don’t feel like that was too needless of a sidetrack into my personal affairs.

Hmm… what other mundane activities can I turn into unnecessarily long meanderings of a mind prone to hyperbole?