[dc]A[/dc] guy always remembers his first–his first bachelor pad couch that is.
Last known photo of Striped Couch by Stephanie.
I had to part with my own, bringing an end to our seven-year partnership. Yes, it is time for me to put away childish things as I prepare to begin my life with the future Mrs. J. Hogan.
And by childish things, I mean a yellow-green-tan striped couch circa the Nixon Administration, not my boxes of LEGO or my Voltron toys¹ (fat chance).
Like the best things in life, Striped Couch was free. A hand me down of a hand me down, belonging to a great-aunt, and then my parents before me. It lived with me in two different apartments here in Lansing (five years, and two years), one of only a few pieces of furniture to do so (RIP beanbag bed, race car dresser, ALF end table, and hockey stick lamp).
Striped Couch was always there for me. It never questioned my watching Cabin Boy, Ernest Goes to Africa, or even Ancient Aliens. It never complained when I spent five-hours straight playing Final Fantasy VII or EarthBound, or an entire afternoon meticulously drafting a team in NHL 2K7, only to trade them all away for high picks in next season’s draft. Striped Couch held me close when I fell asleep watching Stanley Cup Playoff overtime games, with my head resting on one armrest, and my feet dangling over the other.
Striped Couch never grew angry when I spilled coffee, beer, or fake blood on its Nixon Administration-era textile. Striped Couch just shrugged, in theory of course, and smiled, also in theory—but if you squinted at its stripes and canals just right, you could swear Striped Couch was smiling back.²
Oh, if Striped Couch could talk. What would it say?
…On second thought, I don’t want it to talk. Ever. It would probably spill a torrent of stories worthy of TMZ or a Fox News wet dream.
Listen here, Striped Couch, no one needs to know about all the [REDACTED] or the [REDACTED] with [REDACTED] while watching My Little [REDACTED]: [REDACTED] is Magic. And that thing with [REDACTED] was totally a misunderstanding. How was I suppose to know [REDACTED] was allergic to [REDACTED]?
For the love of Batman, Striped Couch, please don’t talk about my fondness for wearing [REDACTED] while cleaning. I have a reputation to keep up.
I can’t have people thinking I actually clean up after myself.
What would the neighbors think?
…Don’t answer that either, Striped Couch. I’ll see you in [REDACTED].
¹ Lion force. Duh.
² Or that just might be my medication.
