Letter Writing 2: Write Harder
Dear Tedd's Couch:I know Tedd's Mom doesn't like you—the way you used to be brighter, whiter and exotic. I'd rather you be the quixotic and idiotic register of my comfort than the vision of Mrs. Wood’s perfection. Please, no disrespect to her, she’s a saint, but you’re a martyr. You have suffered in both hue and retinue—a dull seat due to the entourage of Virginians and North Carolinians that have occupied your formless cushions.
The stains on your exterior tell no tales, but I lounge on you rather than wondering if you would've fared well in a thrift store or died on the streets of Richmond, VA. You accommodate the tall and wide like the handicapped stalls of fast food restaurants, yet you seemingly take up little space. You provide the comfort of a post work atmosphere, yet you cradle the long term nap or full night’s sleep. I’ve slept on you drunk, visiting, watching television, listening to depressing albums. I’ve kissed women on you, convinced them to stay in my house. I’ve caroused and capered on you, sentimentalized and anthropomorphized you. I’m around you and get jealous of others when they sit on you-castigating me to the other smaller couch.
I know that you have lived in rooms and seen me do devious shit—unmentionable unwarranted acts of carnage—and you would never hate me for it. Yours is a personality of a true warrior; a battle tested friend with a quiet verisimilitude. You are true like trivia show answers, sports triumphs, news broadcasts and reruns of treasured sitcoms.
Though dirty, you glow like late night television, casting light onto my closed eyes. Though covered by a sly slipcover, you’re true color cannot be displaced; your pillows exposing your off-whiteness like blonde eyebrows on jet black-haired hipster girls. You know I love them. You know me better than friends or family—my secrets and indiscretions are ingrained in your cracks. Your couch pulls out revealing your inner strength.
I sit on you now, honoring you, hoping that I won’t have to get up until it is time to sleep. My legs resting on you like you were the patriarch—the proud yet presumptuous father I already have but never see anymore. I sit on you now and consider writing this letter to Tedd’s mother. I would show her your importance beyond that of worn-in comfort and stability. The metaphorical giant that lies within you resembles a thicket of wheat. Feeding the overwhelmed constituents within your blades, you remain steady as the weighty wind tries to break you at the stalk. Though not unbreakable, you are, at least in theory, utterly irreplaceable. Yes, in theory you are a beacon of sturdiness worth your weight in visiting patrons and live-in denizens.
Mrs. Wood, I disagree.
Sincerely,
J--
Labels: Letters to Stuff, old shit
posted by Jeff Laughlin @ 9:41 PM
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