by noel sloboda
It makes me feel no less empty that the third generation marmalade sentient robotic chair grew old before dying.
According to its manual, the chair was supposed to outlast everybody. But when it started to smoke and one of its arms was dislocated (probably from holding those eight pound pipe-case cigarettes), I began to suspect Iâ€™d outlast the chair.
Not that I didnâ€™t attempt to save it. I tried to get it to quit smoking. Patches were no good; the intervention failed miserably. Then there were the doctors: placebos prescribed, cryogenic freezing discussed. In the end, though, none of these efforts mattered; the chair had given up on itself long ago.
I honestly donâ€™t know why. The chair was the best and brightest of its kind. Again and again, I asked why it had no vision of the future in which it had a place. The question was always answered the same way: The chair would stand its ground, puffing out smoke, as though deep in thought. Then it would tilt backwards without a word.
When the third generation marmalade sentient robotic chair finally expired, it was thrown to the curb the same day.
As a matching ottoman without a mate, I donâ€™t know what Iâ€™ll now do. Nobody will fall backwards into the third generation marmalade sentient robotic chair, so there wonâ€™t be anything propped up on my smooth, sweet face. And without purpose, I will likely soon follow my bottomless friend into the great beyond.