I Lost The Wood Glue, Also.

I have a broken chair that sits up against my wall. It stares at me like a despondent Sesame Street character I expect to come to life any minute and sadly ask when I'm going to fix it.

This chair has spent a long 5 months in wooden hospice waiting for me to give it a few more years to live. It's slowly starting to tell me horrible things about myself in it's disjointed state as I continue to decorate it with post-it's and dirty t-shirts, turning it into some kind of collegiate Christmas tree.

As much as I love the added convenience of such decoration I need to fix the chair because:

1.) It is not my chair.
2.) I broke the chair.

You should know the chair was weak to begin with. I did not jump or stand on the chair, I do not weigh 300 lbs, and I was not using it for any form of attack or defense. I sat in the chair and it broke. Yes, disappointing and anti-climactic.

Had it been my chair I would have patched it back together a long while ago just to break it again. Intently. I would have kicked and screamed, made it about my mom and dad, society, the government and being queer. I would have taken it out back and set it on fire, breathing in the fumes of a failed servant to me.

There's a reason almost all of my furniture is plastic. I am still not grown up enough to have anything destructible besides something already destructed. It's a neglectful, deeply painful relationship between the chair and I. Someday soon the healing will begin for both of us.