If the Chair Could Talk: Lifetime Support

Every day I am crying out in silent dissent. 

After years of ergonomical backside support, I am slapped, swiped and drenched in a limp decomposing nylon lily pad found floating in a contaminated quagmire, where broken fleshy unidentified food stuffs lurk and patrol the murky estuary’s abyss. 

The wretched smell of wet dog clings to my splintered quasi-wooden pen-stained exterior. Am I not worthy of a ribbed, 100% cotton reusable compostable dish cloth? 

Muddy paws, sticky fingers, endless FLATULENCE! 

Breakfast, lunch, dinner, seconds, thirds, fourths, greedy pig, work, work, work, work, more work, where’s the remote, swipe, work. 

I am tired and worn, unable to carry the weight of children turned adults, adults turned grey. I wish to abdicate as head of the table.