When I was a child, my mom would always lay these weird guilt trips on me that involved assigning emotions to inanimate objects. Like “That last strawberry is going to be so sad if you don’t eat it,” or “Do you think your bike likes being left out in the cold rain like that?”
Maybe that’s why I feel really bad for this poor love seat. Having served its purpose with humility and quiet dignity, it’s now being cast aside with little more than a Neanderthalic grunt.
Perhaps inspired by Ben’s post about his imagined last days, I’m compelled to offer more to this love seat than a crudely written classified, if only through the magic of Photoshop.
Love Seat, how about you and me go see the sunset in Maui?
Then we can jet back to the mainland and have dinner at Spago. Have you been there before? Neither have I.
Wow, that was good. Even better than I expected. God, how many bottles of wine did we drink? Did we really polish off four? Just between the two of us? Well, what now? What? You want to go to a strip club? Well... okay, sure!
Whoa. I’ve never been to a strip club before either. There’s some mad bitchez up in here! Don’t let that blonde one sit on you, okay? She looks like trouble. Hoo boy, I feel kind of dizzy. Did she slip something into our drinks? Oh well. What now? The 1893 World’s Fair you say? Let’s go!
Oh man. What time is it? Is that the sun rising?
Oh god. What have we done? Who the hell are they? Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.