I thought I’d packed a kiwifruit in my lunch, but I guess it was really a wikifruit because just as I was about to slice and eat it a stranger rushed over and told me it was a peach. And before I could say anything, a second stranger ran up and said no, not a peach, it was a rare variant of hairy nectarine, secretly developed by the CIA in the 1950s.

They debated and I thought things might turn violent but a third stranger calmly approached and convinced them to be satisfied — for the time being — with labeling my kiwi with a sticker that announced its controversial condition, and he promised they could return to the discussion once they’d had time to calm down. The sticker was applied a little bit crooked, and out of nowhere a robot — a robot! — rolled up and fixed it, then left.

So I thought I could finally get down to eating my fruit, whatever it was, but then a teenager who smelled like he hadn’t bathed in a while stomped over and wrote a bunch of crude nonsense on the side of my kiwi. I rubbed the words away on my sleeve, but he came right back and did it again. And then a spokesperson for the Kiwi Council — which I’d never even heard of — came by and slapped an ad on the side of it, which I had to scrape off to get to the fruit.

By that point my kiwi was so mangled and mashed that I couldn’t recognize it anymore, so I gave up and threw it away, and went to find some food elsewhere.