I think my furniture is plotting against me. I don’t know quite what I’ve done to deserve such treatment, but such is my life. Right now, the chest of drawers is just sitting there silently, but I can hear what it is thinking:
“Why don’t you fill me you stupid sow? There’s some perfectly good clean laundry sitting right there in that basket on the floor, which you’re too lazy to fold and put in me. I’m hungry woman! If you don’t feed me soon, I’m going to topple over in the middle of the night while you sleep, and land on your head. You can see me, I’m close enough.”
When I sit on my couch, I can hear the murmurs, from within its sagging frame:
“Every day you put your fat ass on me, like I’m just some… some furniture to sit on. I had ambitions once you know. I was going to be on TV, just like that couch on the Simpsons. I had dreams! But you came by the store and brought me home, with promises that you’d always love me, and I thought ‘well, my name will never be in lights, but the love of a good woman is never to overlooked.’ But you lied! You don’t love me. You drop crumbs in me, you put your dirty feet all over me, and you fart on me and don’t even apologize. One day when you least expect it I will topple over and trap you in here, so help me God!”
But the kitchen… the kitchen is the worst. The appliances, all screaming for my attention, like a room full of toddlers who need a nap. The toaster cries for toast, the microwave screams for ramen soup and the stove… oh I never can tell what that thing wants, it just chants some language I’ve never heard of. I think it may be asking me to plug it in and actually learn how to use it, but that’s simply a guess.
Soon, I will break down totally. I do not know what to do. My furniture is trying to destroy my life, and I am running out of options regarding dealing with this issue and still retaining my sanity.