Choice Cola

Something I worte ages ago:

Choice Cola
By: Alias Seiichi Tagami

So as I approach the vending machine, I find myself exhausted by the daily drag. Nothing surprises me anymore. I'm thirsty so I withdraw from the laundry account seventy-five cents worth in nickel and zinc. The coins slide down the throat of the pop culture monstrosity before me. On the front there's a large picture of a bottle; Cold and condensated, promising a better life. A much refreshing, sugar filled, carbonated life. Sometimes there are pictures on the sides of the vending mechina' that suggest a peaceful world equally diverse by gender, race and creed. Editor's note: Results may very. I'm still debating which poison to prescribe to myself. As much as I'm looking for something that tastes good, I'm probably looking twice as hard at how each button is decorated. Trust me it's important. I mean that is, that's why we make our decisions; that's how we issue value upon things. It's all cosmetic value. A product never sells it self like its own marketing will. The cherry-cola can is always more interesting than the cola can. While I'm sure the reg-cola has a great personality, it still doesn't cross my mind as an option. I could feed the part of my ego that says I make healthy choices and opt for the diet-cola. Through denial of calories I elevate my self-righteous balloon. Diet-soda is masturbation for Buddhists. At least now I have lowered my options from one hundred to simply two. I'm tired of making all the decisions. I don't want to be the one responsible for making the wrong choice. I mean heaven forbid I see another person with MY soft drink. I'll just press both buttons at once. I apply slight pressure to both buttons. I close my eyes and press into the respective drink avatars. And like that it's done. Electrons fire, switches flip and gears spin. All I can hear is the sound of a cascading carbonating bomb making its way towards me. After a short moment of labor, a soda is born. Before retrieving my prize, I have a moment of clarity. No matter what is waiting for me, I'm going to be disappointed. But really, what did I expect? I expected a surprise... or wanted one at least. I wanted to press cola and root beer then get a lemon-lime. I wanted a surprise discount. I wanted two sodas. I want privilege. I each down and retrieve my prize: A vanilla-cola. This was the option that shortly resided under my middle finger. Now it was my possession with no receipt. Before decapitating my newborn, I remember the percussion it made as it fell to the bottom of the machine. Would it prove to be volatile? A bit of worry then I say:
"**** it, that's just the risk you take."