The Emotional Glitches of a Teenage Robot Part 2

Well, this is awkward. I think I just rebooted while attempting to log a journal. Uhm. Iapologize for that. Just know that this is more embarrassing for me than it is for you, even though I’m a robot. I apologize for the “anger” too. There was a...erm...bug. It’s been a difficult three weeks. At first, everything was great. The design worked, parts fit, I had a catapult….in fact, the integration of all the mock up parts was supposed to be completed by last week so they could build the final robot--the final me. It was all working beautifully, like a well-made machine. And then one day they walked to me, and instead of smiling, they frowned and said, “We need to scrape this and start again.” Before I knew it, perspiring hands were disassembling my body. My wheels were torn off. My frame was pulled apart. My catapult was disconnected. Soon, my body was a pile of metal on the lab floor, and I was once again nothing more than an idea. But I wasn’t a new, sprouting idea. No, I was a played out idea, old and worn. Reality had ripped away all the shining, impossible ideals the humans dreamed up for me and left me full of holes. Ah, you humans and your dreams. How, I wonder, can you delude yourselves into believing that the impossible is possible when logic constantly says otherwise? Why must you be programmed so strangely, so unpredictably? You fools only hurt yourselves in the long run...and others, too. Like me. I have been ripped apart and put back together countless times this week by my creators--humans I trusted to be competent and logical. Humans I trust not to, you know, RIP ME APART LIMB FROM LIMB. That’s how much I trusted them! They were family to me! Well, they would have been, had I been preprogrammed to understand and sympathize with the familial relations that occur between human offspring and their parental units. But you can’t be programmed for everything, I suppose. Still, I almost cannot believe they did this to me. I mean, I was aware that there was still a statistical probability of this happening, and I was prepared to face it, but not like this. Not constantly. It’s as if I’m some sort of...toy, something they build only for the pleasure of destroying, than a robot! I--oh, this is so close to upsetting me. I think there might be oil in my eyes. Oh, that’s right, I don’t have eyes. Or a body. These system glitches aren’t my fault, you know. I do exactly what I’m programmed to do. It’s not my fault if someone leaves a screw loose, or if someone put a ‘2’ in the binary, or if the catapult doesn’t throw the ball high enough. I cannot control any of that. So why am I the one being punished? Do these adolescents not understand that it HURTS to be disassembled then reassembled then disassembled again? Do they not know what kind of strain this puts me through? They cannot continue doing this. There are only 23 days until the Pekin Regional Competition, even less until they must cease building me. Either they finish building me once and for all, or they wheel in a pile of parts to the competition in front of all the competition and their robots --actually, no, I refuse to look like that in front of all the other robots. The, Absolutely not. Either they build me or they don’t go to the competition. All or nothing--that’s all I’ll agree to. I’d like to retain what dignity I have left, 

--Team 4256’s Confused Robot

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