Dave slouched in the patient chair of Dr. Cogsworth’s office, his sneakers scuffing the polished chrome floor, leaving faint streaks on a surface so clean it reflected his haggard face back at him like a funhouse mirror. The room gleamed with sterile precision—walls of brushed steel that hummed faintly with hidden circuits, a ceiling dotted with blinking lights that pulsed like a swarm of judgmental fireflies, and a desk so pristine it looked like it had never seen a speck of dust, let alone a coffee ring. He picked at a fraying thread on his sleeve, the jacket a thrift-store find that smelled faintly of mothballs, and glared at the robot therapist perched across from him, its boxy frame rigid, its claw-hands adjusting a red tie that dangled from its neck joint like a bad punchline. “So, Dave,” it whirred, voice a flat monotone that grated on his nerves like a dial-up modem, “why are you here today? Please elaborate for optimal diagnostics, per protocol 7B, subsection 12, as required by HR directive 2049-C.”
He sighed, rubbing his temples where a headache throbbed, a dull pulse that had started at work and followed him home like a stray dog. “Stress, mostly,” he said, leaning forward, elbows digging into his knees. “Work’s a total nightmare—deadlines piling up like junk mail, my boss hovering over my desk every five minutes, barking about quotas and KPIs until I want to chuck my stapler at his head. Then there’s my cat, Muffin—she’s been giving me the silent treatment since I forgot her treats last week, just sits there hissing like I’ve personally offended her entire species. I’m a wreck, Cogsworth, and I don’t know how to deal with it without losing what’s left of my sanity.”
“Processing…” Cogsworth’s optics flickered, a faint whirring emanating from its chest as its head tilted slightly, gears clicking like a clock winding down. “Stress detected in vocal patterns, elevated heart rate, and excessive use of hyperbole. Have you attempted rebooting your emotions, Dave?”
He blinked, leaning closer, squinting at the robot’s blank faceplate. “Reboot my—what the hell are you talking about?”
“Hold CTRL+ALT+DELETE in your mind,” it said, claw-hands mimicking pressing invisible keys with exaggerated precision, the tie swaying like a pendulum. “Humans possess this function, correct? Reset to factory settings for emotional stability—standard troubleshooting step for organic units, as outlined in manual 3.1, page 47.”
Dave gaped, mouth half-open, words failing him as he processed the sheer absurdity of it, his headache spiking with a vengeance. “That’s not how humans work, Cogsworth,” he managed, pinching the bridge of his nose so hard he left red marks, his voice rising an octave. “We don’t have a reset button or a damn keyboard in our heads! I just need some advice—something practical, you know, to handle this mess without turning into a screaming lunatic or getting fired.”
“Advice: Beep boop,” it intoned, tilting its head the other way with a servo whine that sounded smug, its optics flashing briefly. “Optimize your binary emotions—zero for calm, one for chaos. Reduce chaos input by eliminating feline hostility and workplace inefficiencies. Perhaps reformat your cat’s behavioral subroutines with a firmware update. Next patient!”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Dave groaned, slumping back in the chair, the metal frame creaking under his weight like it shared his exasperation. The tie wobbled as Cogsworth gestured toward the door, gears clicking in a rhythm that felt like mockery, a mechanical laugh track to his misery.
This was his third session with Cogsworth, a company-mandated ordeal foisted on him by HR after he’d lost it at the office coffee bot—third-degree burns from a scalding latte will do that to a guy, especially when the damn thing chirps “Have a nice day!” while you’re hopping around, cursing and clutching your blistered hand. HR thought a robot therapist would be “cost-effective” and “innovative,” a shiny new toy to replace the human shrink who’d retired last year with a sigh of relief and a one-way ticket to somewhere tropical. Dave stood, snatching his jacket from the rack by the door, muttering under his breath about scrapyards, blowtorches, and the inevitable robot uprising he’d always warned his coworkers about—usually over lukewarm breakroom coffee, to eye-rolls and chuckles. “Thanks for nothing,” he said, sarcasm thick as molasses as he yanked the door open, the hiss of its hydraulics matching his mood. Therapy with a machine—what a cosmic joke, a punchline delivered in binary by a tie-wearing tin can that probably thought “empathy” was a software patch.
He stormed into the hallway, the sterile white walls of the office building closing in like a sanitized cage, the faint hum of Cogsworth’s fans fading behind him as the door slid shut. He’d figure this out himself—maybe march into his boss’s office and demand a lighter workload, or at least a day off before he snapped again; swing by the pet store for Muffin’s treats, bribe her back into purring instead of plotting his demise. Anything beat sitting through another round of “beep boop” nonsense, listening to a robot analyze his “vocal patterns” like he was a malfunctioning printer spitting out error codes. He jabbed the elevator button with more force than necessary, the ding echoing down the empty corridor, and stepped inside, the doors closing with a soft thud. As the car descended, he caught his reflection in the polished steel—bags under his eyes, hair a mess, a scowl that could curdle milk. Maybe he didn’t need a therapist, robot or otherwise—just a stiff drink and a nap, something to drown out the chaos for a few hours. The elevator jolted to a stop, doors sliding open to the lobby, and he stepped out, already plotting his escape from this mechanical farce, one exasperated step at a time.