Before you haul me to the curb, let's have a little chat.
Hey there! I’m that old wingback you got for your first apartment—remember me? I totally lent that studio some respectability. And we had some good times, cuddling up with books, doing crossword puzzles together, staying in and watching movies. Sure, I was a little broken-in when you first found me, but you had more time than money back then, and I made a great fix-up project. You ironed patches on my thin spots, and we had fun with that ill-fated painting experiment. When I came out looking less damask burgundy and more multi-colored barf, you sewed me several slipcovers, and I’ve got to say: Each was more professional-looking than the last.
But I can see you’re not so keen on me anymore. You haven’t sat in me forever. And lately you’ve been dumping all over me (usually your dirty laundry). And I get why—I’m not as comfortable as I used to be. I’ve got a broken spring that’s a pain in the ass if you sit in the wrong place, the cat’s been tearing at my arms and back for years, and I’ll admit: One of my legs is a little wobbly. I saw your look the other day, and I know what you’re thinking—it’s time for me to go.
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