August 28th, 2010
The Throne.
I do not have a domesticated cell in my entire body. In fact, I would not be surprised to find the molecules which make up my physical body are completely disorganized and basically thrown into a formation like dirty-laundry-under-bed.
My mother tried, oh how she tried, to make me give a shit. Throughout my entire adolescence she threatened to “take away privileges” or “not drive me to school” if my room was unclean.
“Then it looks like I’m not going to school today, doesn’t it?”
It seemed to me then, and still does now, that becoming a grown up who Gives A Shit was a punishment and so instead of unpacking the dishwasher for my allowance, I studied the virtue of staying a child forever. Said mother hopes that, pretty soon, I will finally graduate from the PhDrunk.
When I packed my backpack with all my belongings (shoes and a puppet) and jetted off to my own apartment in LA, I was suddenly in a position of having work out how to be one of those domesticated adult things.
“How does one mop a floor?” I asked Mother over Skype one day.
“How does a girl who graduated from three university degrees not know how to do the simple things in life?”
She is right and it was a keen observation. I could write you a philosophy thesis in about nine hours so long as Jack Daniels is in the room. But finding out colors and whites need to be separated for laundry was, like, a scientific discovery for me in the vein of Big Bang Theory.
It is said that our personalities are established in the first ten years of life, which fucking terrifies me. I can’t imagine what I was doing from infancy to tween for “this” to be the end result.
By the time I had reached of-adult-age, my ten year old self was stubbornly in place and the date listed on my birth certificate had absolutely no influence in the decisions I made. And it still doesn’t. Other people went out and got jobs/bought houses/got married/adopted a cat. I enrolled in a university degree and again/and again/and made it my mission to only sleep with boys who have a totally different letter after their generation. Yes, life is great, thanks for asking.
The day I moved into my own apartment, I had to go to Target and buy a pillow to save me from sleeping on just a mattress. I had nothing and did not prepare anything else because I had no idea what to expect. I just figured that I would work it out and within the week own a couch, dinning table, microwave and bar (OK, so I knew enough to know that every house should have one of those to make it a home). A week later, it was still just me, the pillow, the shoes and the puppet.
“You’re going to need something to sit on,” my mother coaxed me.
She was right and it was a keen observation, so one particularly hungover Saturday, I laid on my pillow and Goggled “beanbags” for five hours.
About a week later, two boxes arrived from BeanBagsRUs.com or whatever it was I had StumbledUpon. I unpacked them and was met with two raisin-esque black things that did not look like something I would need to ever sit on.
“I’ll deal with it later,” I thought and went back to sitting on the kitchen counter with my laptop and scotch, working.
I looked over to the beanbags in between sips and realized that they were expanding at a speed similar to Heidi Montag’s bust line. By the end of my work day/scotch bottle, my entire lounge room was filled with Beanbag.
“Oh, this is awkward,” I admitted as a sat on the only space left available. The toilet.
But after a shaky start, the beanbags became the loves of my life, the pride of the studio and the most expansive part of my life objective. Which does make me feel bad for admitting, because while I do love the toaster oven, but it just does not provide me with the same sustenance as the beanbags do.
“I need to have sex on one of those,” I have told any guest who has come into my apartment and, for some reason, still wonder why my neighbors hate me.
It was an added bonus and total coincidence, really, that one of the bags looked like something bought at Pleasure Chest and had the perfect dimensions for [my favorite position].
I always declared I would get a couch eventually, but figured it would be a long time in the future when I worked out where they are sold, someone gifted me one or similar. My fear, really, was that acquiring a couch would mean that I, suddenly, gave a shit and had succumbed to being an adult.
So when I was interrupted while actually working (writing, not fucking) on the biggest beanbag and offered a neighbors couch, I had a moment of panic. It was kind of like when Neo has to decide which pill to take. If I took the couch, everything as I knew it would change and no longer exist. I must remember to tell my mother that chairs aren’t just things one sits their ass on. They are also glorified existential crises’. Filled with beans.
The issue, for me, was that the big beanbag would have to go in a “It’s not me, it’s you” manner. I felt like a cold hearted bitch for just abandoning something that had been so kind to me. Seriously, “My goal in life is to have sex on my beanbag” is the worlds greatest pick-up line with a ninety percent success rate. Try it. In fact, if you need a beanbag, I am giving one away…
“My goal in life is to have sex on my couch,” just does not have the same ring to it.
It’s like, “OK, sweetheart, do you want some vanilla to add to that exceptionally boring life you lead?”
There is nothing exotic about an erotic session on a couch. I’ve had sex on a couch before. I have sex on millions of couches before. Pfft, I’ve probably had sex on yours. But, because I am a big kid now, I have to get used to what it is like trying seduce someone without the aid of a beanbag. It sucks. I was only just getting my head around seducing people who aren’t students and who have adult lives. I think I was right. Being a grownup majorly sucks.
However, as I do love a challenge, I accepted the couch and all the responsibility that comes with it. I am yet to find any success but, I figure, someone in the world will like it.
So…umm….this is awkward…Do you want to have sex on a couch?