Foam Chair
I walked in there and all was there was a small foam chair. This studio apartment is supposed to be vacant. I hope the toddler that was here prior is being well fed and overall, taken care for. You can’t have babies when you are still trying to make it into the industry. Send that kid to the grandmas in the suburbs, they’ll learn lots with whatever daytime game show is on. Unless it’s that show with the green stuff on the cartoon channel, the kid is gonna want some birth control before a darn tickle me Elmo. I feel like the landlord should have handled this foam chair shit, the place has not even been wiped now that I think of it. I don’t know if i’ve just walked in the middle of a crime scene, predusting and evidence checking. I’ll take my chances, i’ve tampered with evidence on the highway many times. The chair was seated where the bed is supposed to be, someone must have really been following dreams. I can’t be mad at it, I came here empty handed. Just a couple bags like a backpacker in Alaska that survives for a hobby. No furniture left behind, rent a center must have led a charge and marched the last tenants till the balcony for their stuff back. The foam chair is an armchair that is shin high and it unfolds but there is no pillows. Thinner than the mats in wrestling class but it’s just as smelly. The cots used in the spanish wars had more integrity than this, bright red with a stupid Lightning McQueen face on the headboard. I don’t believe in talking cars, if you believe in talking cars then you probably fucked the car and got tucked in a racecar bed. If a car talked to me then it would be my truck begging for mercy and a mormon style firing squad. Same goes with the talking train, it only ends in two ways. Alone in the basement with your train kit or jumping in front of one. Asbestos upon the sky of this apartment, stare at it long enough and you’ll spot the glistening glitter. I might have to move this bed out to the balcony, air out the shame that this armchair brings about and screed it off the balcony. No TV but you can hear the people fighting next door. Something about the guy forgetting to feed the dog, I think that’s on the dog. How domesticated are you that you can’t hunt down that bag of food for yourself, you can rip up a new toy and the couch but not a bag of kibble. I don’t know if the people fighting are fighting on the other side of this asbestos covered wall or if the comotion is coming from between the walls. I’d let a cannonball rip through this place if I had a cannon or some balls. I say we should usher cannons back into society, that Frank Richards fella was ahead of his time in the 30’s. Evolution is working a bit slow for us, being able to work out in Denver or Mexico and being a light skinned milk mugger is fine but we need to think on our feet during these changing times. Death rates would be much lower if we evolved into a society that can at least take a cannonball straight to the chest without swallowing spit down the gullet. “Think of the children” as the greek rhetorics stated, if they can take a cannon like Frank Richards then the bullets will just be fridge magnets to a fridge.