I'm not sure when my sofa became sentient,

I'm not sure when my sofa became sentient, though I'm certain it was after I had moved out of my ex-girlfriend's loft apartment but before I rented that hole over on 4th. Anyway,

my sofa was very moody and was not as comfortable as usual. Leading me to believe it was premenstral tension. I dropped some chocolate down the back of the sofa which cheered her

up somewhat. But she still wouldn't let me sit on her tender cushions. Sofa insisted on her favorite pillow which I tenderly reminded her the cat had puked on. "You don't love me."

"Oh but I do!" cried Sofa. "Then let me sit on you!" I implored. "I don't want the pukey cushion." "No, I'm not emotionally ready yet," she said. "I'm afraid that if I let you sit

down I'll never be able to let you stand up. Haven't you ever felt that way about somebody?" I looked away. Sofa wasn't the first girl whose cushions I wanted to drown in. Recliner

had her way with me more than once by the fire. "Oh just sit down on my edge. Just for a second. Just to see what it feels like." 12 hours later I woke up with a neck crick that

would have made a brontosaurus look for Advil. But I noticed that my shell had broken, into two, no three pieces. My yolk was still there, but the white had soaked into the

cracks. I cringed. It was egg-asperating to find that my best laid plans had failed. Still I had to keep myself from completely cracking up. I asked my hard-boiled friend Hugh for

a bookshelf, a keg of beer, a giraffe, and a Twilight movie. I was going to make a bomb. Somehow he was able to find everything in the prison. Soon, we would be free.