When I sit here in my brand new and very fucking comfortable office chair I am inspired to write a novel entitled "A Tale of Two Chairs."
Two chairs that provide for me a great deal of comfort.
And perhaps rob me of ambition.
I am about to go downstairs and settle into my magnificent, quite luxurious recliner for the night. To relax and try to stave off thoughts of a 5:15 am alarm.
Are these chairs spoiling me? Diverting me from the balls to the wall effort it will take to resurrect my life from the ash heap of failure?
Perhaps I should drag them to the dump. Or donate them to a homeless shelter.
Perhaps I should replace them with lumpy chairs with exposed springs and offensive odors.
Chairs that make my ass bleed.
FUCK NO!
I am 67 years old, weeks removed from 68.
I revel in my cushy comfort and make no apology to any man.
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