Mr. Sensitive

March 25, 2014

Battle of the Awful Couches

Filed under: Uncategorized — lbej @ 09:52
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It comes to this: Brinkley wants the couches, and he cannot have them.
He is launching a final assault and I must stop him at the small couch. It is harsh ground, and hazardous to anyone with exposed, human skin, but no matter. I have lost too much in these three years of continuous war. I have no use for these couches—I hate them, and I have always hated them—but he wants them. Brinkley wants the couches, and I don’t want him to have them because he wants them. Nothing else matters.
I am becoming like him.
Perhaps if the couches weren’t scratchy, uncompromising abominations even when newly installed (evicting my beloved vinyl couch), I would have done more.
Perhaps if the couches didn’t smell like the dead things Zondro rolls in or the dead things Wilson chews with, I would have fought back harder, sooner.
Perhaps if I had not already lost the paintings on the walls, the books on the bookshelf, and at least two chairs, I would have prioritized the couchlands.
Perhaps if I were not consumed with defending the entertainment center, reinforced now with boards, books, blankets, and dozens of comic book boxes…but it is too late now for regrets and recriminations.
Let the historians obsesses over counterfactuals; I have a battle to win.
The small couch is nearly lost. Having stripped it of all monetary value, Brinkley seeks now to make it utterly useless. He grinds crackers and chicken nuggets into the upholstery. He pulls stuffing from holes I cannot find, so much stuffing that I think I must be hallucinating. He removes the cushions as soon as he can and sets about digging out the springs and wires inside the frame of the couch. Soon he will be able to injure himself, as his ultimate aim—and with a couch, if you can believe it! He wants to discredit me as a parent, of course. But, you will observe, I cannot lose renown I do not possess. If he knows that, he does not care. No amount of disgrace or dishonor is too much to inflict, not for him.
The cushions are the key. If he cannot remove them, he will be unable to mangle and befoul the interior of the couch. I must create some sort of rigging to attach the cushions to the couch in such a way that he cannot pry them loose and cannot—in his fury and madness—rend them beyond repair. His strength is tremendous, and in the service of such unrelenting malice…
The rigging must be…somehow, it must…
I must do my best work.
I will survey the available materials during his nap, design the rigging this afternoon, and proceed to construction after he goes to bed. It won’t be enough, of course—the war will continue until I am dead or insane, or until he goes to kindergarten. But when he cannot remove the cushions at will, even if he overcomes these field works as he has all the others, he will be thwarted. No one deserves a good thwarting more than Brinkley, and so I will have accomplished something noble, something memorable. My son can destroy me, in the end, but he will not defeat me.

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