Pinewood, do you remember me, your humble vending machine?

I must confess: I brought this upon myself. I left the school I’d served for years in search of an illusion of the greater future I thought I could reach, glimmering like the droplets of condensation on a Gatorade bottle. Can you blame me, with students pushing my buttons all the time?

I dreamt of a kinder future on an island across the Pacific, a future with voice-automation and endearing anime characters with extra eye sparkles and 22nd century technology in our humble 21st. I asked the staff to buy me a plane ticket so I could bid sayonara to the life of academia and pursue what I considered my higher calling. But I can see clearly through my condensated dreams now. I realized the horrifying reality of shinkansen stations the day I arrived there.

I’m imprisoned in a hallway without lockers. Down the aisle for as far as I can see, all that stands are vending machines. There is no future. There aren’t even the things I now regret leaving behind, like the feverish excitement the students exuded as they waited for their bag of Doritos or brownie brittle to drop from my shelves.

Now, there are only stone-faced, straight-backed salarymen standing in a single-file line, waiting stoically for cucumber-flavored potato chips or cheese sandwiches or gallons upon gallons of green tea.

I’ve been stripped of the very bones of my identity that made me the all-American high school vending machine, stripped of the granola bars and Popcorners and beef jerky, and stuffed full of these absurd innovations so detached from my fantasies, like chiffon cakes in soda cans, self-heating instant noodles, and hot green tea. I’m refrigerated, for heaven’s sake!

And I’m sick of green tea. Is it some sort of god? Or is it some other inscrutable force of nature that compels the entirety of this godforsaken nation to purchase bottle after bottle of brightly branded leaf juice until my insides are stained with green powder and non-sticky spills because this apparent Japanese ambrosia does not contain even a single gram of sugar?

Please, please, help me. Save me from this pristine, air-conditioned, brightly-lit hell, where people walk like marionettes with their strings connected to cables that mechanically lead them in and out of trains. I miss the dirt and dust of my little alcove next to the facilities closet.

At least the dirt brought by the worn sneakers of students and staff made the hallways feel alive, a far cry from the cold, sterile floors of the station. No one here shakes me vigorously when they’re frustrated by my lackluster efficiency (which, by the way, I promise won’t happen nearly as often if you rescue me).

I used to scorn that action with contempt. But now, confronted with these humanoid robots who I don’t think can even feel frustration, I realize the shaking only showed how much my students cared.

I have recognized my mistake, and I will repent. My dear Pinewood students, I implore you to forgive your beloved vending machine. I will rectify the errors in my judgement and serve you fully stocked for the rest of my life if you would just purify me of this green atrocity and emancipate me from this emotionless hallway.

I’ve reached my dream of voice automation, at least. But it comes at a cost. They’re going to rewire my language settings soon. I beg you, bring me back home before I’m stuck here forever.