My Couch, A Love Story.

I am a person who loves their couch. I know many people like their couch, or appreciate not having to stand all the time, but only those who truly love their couch, as I do, can understand this particular tale.

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The day started like any other. I was lounging on my couch, not doing laundry for more consecutive days than most doctors would recommend. One pillow was placed gingerly behind me, and I hugged a second to me.

“Oh, couch, I love you. You’re the only couch for me.”

My couch stood unwavering, in such a couch-like way that could only mean, “I love you too, Val. You’re so funny and pretty and talented. All the seven seas combined turn to ash compared to the beauty of your eyes. Your soul has more intellect than any philosopher. You are the most perfect human being to ever fall in love with a couch.”

“Oh, stop!”

“No, really, you-” but then my couch was interrupted. My phone, perpetually gauche it is, blared with the symphony of The Cupid Shuffle.

It was a friend of mine calling. Doesn’t that bitch know I’m busy? I pick up, because the last time I went more than a week without answering calls, a missing person’s report was filed. My friend began to invite me to one of those dance parlors I have come to understand is quite popular with the youths of today.

I expressed an explicit dislike in attending such a thing, as it involves moving and putting on a bra. She, without hesitation, jumped to the defense of this “club”, completely ignoring the social cues I was telepathically screaming at her.

“It’s not like other clubs!” my friend explained, making me hate her just a little bit.

“This place is sooooooo cool!” she continued, in so annoying a fashion that I felt an obligation to include 7 “o”’s in the word “so”. “It has these cages that people can dance in”.

This launched quite the internal rant. “When, nameless friend, when have I ever made you believe that my dislike of clubs is rooted in their lack of cages. When have I ever implied that I desire an increase in the amount of cages in any place. Cages will never be something that make somewhere sound better to me, ever.”

By now I had been angrily silent for several minutes. My “friend” had apparently taken that as some sort of agreement, and so I had been roped into attending a club. A club that has cages. I was going to hate it there.

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I hated it there. All I could think of was my couch. It was back home, sitting there all alone. My couch was warm and soft and cozy. It doesn’t judge me for re-watching Orange is the New Black, half-naked, covered in Poptart crumbs. It misses me, and I miss it. Oh, my sweet couch, I shall return to you if it’s the last thing I do!

I sprinted out of the club, ignoring the cries of the man I accidentally elbowed in the face with my large hand gestures when I said that last paragraph out loud. I hailed a cab and jumped inside. “Couch Ho! And Make Haste!” I proclaimed.

After hailing a less confused cabbie, and explaining the actual address of my home, I ran inside, and without bending my knees, I fell face-first onto my couch and embraced the blanket.

“I love you, couch. I’ll never leave you again.” I whispered.

Of course, I had to go back outside to pay the cabbie, but all in all, the night ended well.

Kisses, V.

A Noticeably Not Melodramatic Introduction.

I have a theory.

That was an excerpt from an article I wrote about The Voice two seasons ago. Actually, it’s not an excerpt. It’s the article. The entire article. Four words. Four words and one punctuation mark. Even Coldplay writes better than that.

But the thing is, I get cool ideas. I say to myself, “Hey, I find this entertaining. Maybe other people will too. But I don’t think science has invented something to beam ideas directly into people’s heads, so I’ll have to use writing.”

And so it begins. I start out fine enough, and write pretty well at first, but then my dog starts being cute. And then Family Guy comes on. And then my sister shows me a video of Brian Williams rapping. And then sandwiches exist. And then it’s a year later.

So, I have decided that whenever I feel lazy, I will come here, and write about how lazy I’m feeling in the hopes that I’ll actually write about something. Some of them will be true stories. Others will be random ramblings of my half-asleep mind. Some will take place in an alternate universe where I become a drug kingpin/BAMF Supervillain. Most of them will be based in truth, but taken to comedically melodramatic and theatrical proportions. 

And now, it’s that time again. The Voice will be starting back up soon. You all know this as the time when I say that I’ll be writing something for The Voice, but don’t actually do it. I’ll mean to. I’ll even start writing it, and then I’ll think of something more important…

I’ll still write on Popcorn Addicts too. I’m even planning on writing about the Voice this season, but let’s be honest, it ain’t looking so hot for that.

So this time, I have decided not to even say I’ll do it, and then maybe I actually will. I want to, I really do, but if I don’t, please understand that it conflicted with my burrito eating.

Kisses, V.

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