It came.
My butt and back have finally been relieved from the contortionist hell that drew heavily from the “wooden chair with a scrunched up pillow for a seat” school of design. This, my friends, is a kind of ass heaven.
It is, of course, the long-awaited chair.
People could launch schemes of elaborate heights and death-defying complexity if they had the proper seatage. They could ponder the mysterious of the genetic code, and pontificate on the wonders of the emotive mind if only they knew comfortable buttock support. They could write a novel that would make all who read it deeply comprehend the vagaries of love, and weep.
All I know is, I am a vain, materialistic, self-centred solipsistic, boastful, all-consuming jerk. But I am happy.
