The Futontross

I put you on Freecycle, futon. And still, no-one wants you. What does that say about you, futon? That no-one wants you even when you are free. And I didn't even include the awful truth that you still smell vaguely of cat pee.

Your mattress weighs a metric ton, and your folding frame does not stay up--one of many ways that you are an invertebrate. Your mattress is too heavy and thick for your frame, I know. It was me that made the poor choice of giant mattress with inadequate frame. But that does not excuse you just lying there, taking up half the guest room, taunting me with your amorphousness--some vast and awful reminder of why some wonders of the Orient should have been left there, along with duck feet and/or beaks.

Your days are numbered, futon.

Aaaaaa!

Burrito longitudinal split! Structural integrity fatally compromised!

I am engulfed in a sea of frijoles negros. It is much like Pompeii, only with more warning and legumes.

SOUP DAY!

Just thought I'd break the months and months of silence here to let you know that is clearly and unambiguously Soup Day. I urge you in the strongest possible way to go and eat some soup right now. If you can't eat it, for some private reason that you'd rather keep to yourself, like maybe you were traumatized by soup as a youngster when you walked in on your parents having soup one day, the delicious broth running down their chins, then you could maybe at least think about soup for a while. It's the least you could do.

Me, I'm having corn chowder with something that might be called poblano--I don't know what it is. But it is so good. I'm turning to the wind, my eyes wide open*, naked and alive for the first time, thanks to this soup.

Soup. Freaking. Day.

*I don't recommend this. If you must turn to the wind, please wear eye protection.