Ode to My Old, Stinky Couch

When we first obtained you from the local furniture store, I was still getting used to this long-term memory thing. Therefore, I do not remember bringing you home. Sorry.

I do remember, though, thirteen years ago when we moved across the state to this little town. We hit major traffic on Alligator Alley and were late arriving at our new home. That night, I slept on one of your cushions.

When I was sick w/the flu for two weeks and too delirious to stay in my room, I slept on you. I saw nekkid ladies in the rough texture of your upholstery and felt dirty.

I had my first kiss while sitting on you and watching The Year Punk Broke. It was during Sonic Youth's Schizophrenia and the boy was so stoned, he slid off your already warped cushions onto the floor.

This same boy would later smoke too much pot and puke on you. Sorry about that.

The Most Beautiful Boy in the World sat on you once and watched Exorcist 3 w/me. Every time I sat in that spot for the next two weeks, I would think about him.

Your wooden legs have been chewed by two puppies. One grew up and died years ago. The other now has white around her face and a shake in her step.

I carved DIE in little letters on your arm back when I was suicidal teenager who listened to too much Bob Dylan. It's still there.

We've been through a lot together, Old Stinky Couch. It seems kinda wrong that you're now sitting in my back yard, waiting to be cut up and used as scrap wood. And your cushions stacked in a pile next to your frame...hopefully, they will some day make a nice nest for the rats at the dump. I suggested that maybe a burial at sea or some kind of large fire would be an appropriate farewell, but you know my parents. Safety first. Jerks.

Anyhoo, although you are retired and dismembered in my backyard, your replacement already fitting in w/the other mismatched pieces of furniture in my living room, your memory lives on.

Viva la Stinky Couch!

(You should see me when I get new shoes...then again, no, you shouldn't.)

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