I'll cop to a bout and a half of anxiety, where the idea of leaving the house felt like someone strapped a shipment of phone books to my back, pointed to a hill, smacked me on the ass, and said, "Get to trudging, Sisyphus.". I can also say that it was not an uncommon thing for me to get home so worn out from 8 hours of squeezing empathy from my turnip heart that the last thing I wanted was to risk having to give a shit somewhere else. Somewhere along the way, I fell into an affair with my couch. After a while, its whispering got stuck in my head. It would tell me things like:
- Come on baby. Just a little nap. Put your head on my pillows, just to see how it feels.
- I've always wanted a threesome, and I know this willing leopard print snuggie. Girl's got mad skills, and she's a top.
- People? But, they don't understand you like *I* do.
- Besides, if they loved you, they'd call.
- Lay here like one of Leo's French girls. It'll be hot.
- Shhhh. Don't fight it. It hurts less if you just lay still.
I'm beginning to think I have an abusive relationship with my furniture. . .
Joking aside, It's nearly 11:00 on a Sunday. Tomorrow, being the day of the week that it is, will start off like a lion at work. I should be tired. I should be concerned about getting enough sleep to make it through the day without biting a hole in the side of my cheek. But, I'm not. I'm energized from the evening, even if it wasn't my best performance ever. Hey couch. We gotta talk. See, this thing we've got? I'm just not feelin' it anymore. It's not me, it's you.