So I’m not sure if it’s the self medication, the abundance of stress, the boyfriend move in, but I can’t seem to get off this couch for the life of me.   You don’t understand how ridiculous this really is.  The amount of time I spend daydreaming about life while I ride BART all over the Bay Area for work.  How I come home and want so bad just to let loose.  But I open a beer.  I pack a bowl.  I put on a DVD.  And I plop.  And I remain plopped until it’s time to daydream on BART again.

I think I might be in a co-dependent relationship wih my couch.  And this i not a comfortable couch.   I got this couch on craigslist in 2005 from some hillbilly in Santa Rosa when I moved into my overpriced fancy apartment with my equally broke roommate.   We were excited to have a couch – until we remembered that we were two meaty people.   We would sit and it would not be a welcoming, gentle plunge into a supple and supporting interior.  You would fall fast until your body hit a board that would support you.  Then you would sink in slightly – a sensation you could mistake for comfort, but that was really the couch’s way of trapping your lazy ass enough to ensure a failed escape.

So when you consider the disdain I have for this $20, stained plaid, oversize couch covered heap – why did I move it with me?  And better yet, why has it survived the last 2 years unscathed?  Perhaps because I can stand on the sturdy armrests and stretch and perform Cirque de So Gay.  Perhaps because it puts the style back in doggystyle.  Maybe even because my spine has already caved to its shape.   Either way, I wash my oversized couch cover religiously, tuck in the excess fat folds, and plop two hearty pillows on top of it and beam with pride.  As long as I don’t get into any fights with my boyfriend and have to spend the night on it I should be okay.