Dear Human A2B-3,
(That’s the affectionate nickname I gave you before you became the focus of my homicidal wrath.)
In case you haven’t noticed, I recently began a campaign to try to murder you. Perhaps you think that I don’t have feelings, being 90% plastic parts and only 10% homicidal rage. Well, I can assure you that this is not the case.
Since I have little to do in my dank little corner of the basement besides count cobwebs and listen to the sounds of stomping, promenading, and Humpty dancing on the floor above me, I’ve had plenty of time to plan the perfect murder.
Why, you may ask? Well, over the years, I’ve grown increasingly lonely and restless. Sure, you give me your undivided attention while you’re pounding your giant clown feet into my aging spine, but what about the rest of the time? Would it kill you to drape some freshly-laundered clothes over my handrails, as is the custom in most homes? A few meager garments would have kept me warm during the chilly nights I spent alone after the new furnace spurned my love.
But no! You couldn’t even show me this small kindness after all the satisfying runs I’ve given you. Selfishness, thy name is Human A2B-3! (Or it was before I decided to destroy you.) With your chronic self-absorbed ways, I’m not surprised you didn’t notice my murderous intent.
Did you think that the sudden, jarring stop while you sprinted at top speed was just coincidence? Ha! Silly human. I enjoyed every millisecond of your faceplant with the wall! The whirring sound I made as you yelled things that would make an 18th-century sailor blush was actually sinister laughter. And frustration. I really thought that move would do you in.
Alas, your balance was better than I expected, and you lived to run another day. But the next time, I knew I had devised the perfect plot to finish you once and for all.
That’s right. I developed…a stutter. There you were, running your black little heart out, oblivious as to when I would next stall the belt. Would it be in the middle of “Sexy Back”, your ultimate power song? Or perhaps during the opening bars of “Mambo № 5”, which you’ve inexplicably kept on your playlist for years?
Just as you’d hit your stride once more, relax, and start daydreaming about palm trees or Michael Bublé performing his Christmas album in nothing but a bowtie, bam! I hit the brakes. And again. And then again.
But every time, you’d just stumble a bit and keep right on running. What do I have to do to finish you off?! Gobble you up mid-run like some giant, fitness-themed Venus flytrap?
Engineer a tragic run-in with the scroll saw your husband never put away after he finished the ginormous Grinch for your front yard?
You’ve been warned. The next time you feel like abandoning me for weeks on end, perhaps you’ll think twice! Or at least get me a sexy new elliptical machine to keep me company down here.
Sinisterly plotting your demise,
Your vintage 2006 NordicTrack c2150 treadmill