I hate my couch.
We have two.
I go from one to the other.
Back and forth, back and forth.
Ping pong, ping pong.
I have two heating pads. I've killed many over the years. I am The Heating Pad Murderess. I should own the company by now. They should pay me to advertise. Photos of me on one of my two couches with their product warming my spasming muscles; one on my neck, one on my lower back. As soon as I sit down I put them on. The household become slaves to my demands: "More water! More drugs! More dancing elephants!"
I'm a prisoner. I have to stack pillows on my lap to prop up my books. I have a blanket on. I can't move.
Illustration by saworks
If there was a fire I would have my family kiss me goodbye. "Goodbye dear Mother!" my son and daughter would say tragically. "Goodbye dear Wife, adieu, farewell, fly with the angels..." I can't bloody fly! I'm attached to the power outlet"...I've read too many historical novels.
One couch has a plywood board on it for my back that my Handy Dandy Dan put under the cushion. My bountiful posterior should be as flat as Kansas by now. I've have been sitting more these last two years than probably all of the rest of my life put together.
My daughter's musically gifted boyfriend is playing a beautiful Chopin piece on the piano...sigh.
I am alive damn it!