Hello, chair.

Yeah, it’s you and me butting heads again. Or is it butting butts? Anyway, you didn’t choose me and I didn’t choose you. We were thrown together like prison roommates. Fortunately, you’ve never tried to shiv me or drop the soap, still, our relationship has been anything but smooth sailing.

First, you are very uncomfortable. Did you know that? I’m not sure you do since you sit there all smug implying that our problems are entirely my fault, when you are at fault, too. Your leather is more like pleather and since our office is always broiling hot, well, to put it delicately, you give me swamp ass. That can’t be pleasant for you either.

Second, your central support part that supports the chair part doesn’t go up high enough, so I feel like I’m sitting in a sports car instead of a minivan. Sports cars have their place, but really, for working forty hours a week, the minivan is where it’s at. Because you don’t go up high enough, I have to awkwardly reach my mouse and keyboard, which sometimes makes my carpel tunnel flare up.

Third, your armrests are way too low and not adjustable at all. Who are they designed for? A five-year old? No, that can’t be it since five-year olds tend to be narrow and your armrests are so very far apart. I know you kind of have to be lowest common denominator so that everyone can fit in you, but your armrests are seriously way too low and too far apart. I’d have to weigh approximately 200 more pounds and be three feet shorter for them to do me any good. This guy would probably have little difficulty with your arm rests:

But, for some unfair reason, I don’t ride a clown bike. Not to mention that they’re pebbled plastic, which is rather uncomfortable on bare flesh. I tend to wear short sleeve shirts, because as you may have noticed or at least read a few sentences ago, it’s damn hot in here. For future reference, armrests should be adjustable, and preferably, padded.

Fourth, you have absolutely no lumbar support. Not only that, but you’re actually concave so that my back curves into you in the worst possible way like I have scoliosis. I do not have scoliosis. I had to bring a pillow in from home just to make you mildly comfortable. The top picture is you; the bottom picture is what you should be:

Finally, you squeak. I don’t know how that’s possible since you’re made almost entirely of plastic, pleather and the forlorn ghosts of desk chairs past, but you do. Every time I move, you give me back talk. Quit yapping at me, chair, or I’ll be forced to throw you out a window. Well, as our building only has one floor, I’ll have to come up with a different plan, but whatever it is, it’ll be scary! You betcha!

Look, I know you were probably a great desk chair once. In 1998, you rolled off the assembly line somewhere where letters look like the lumbar image above and you had great hopes for the future. You were full of promise and didn’t squeak. I know that supporting my buttocks for forty hours a week is probably not what you had in mind as a career. I know all too well the kind of bitterness dashed hopes like that can breed. I’m right there with you. But the fact is, chair, you and I are stuck together. The company we work for is too cheap to buy me a new chair and there are no other chairs to choose from besides that broken one. You’re not quite that bad yet. You are still in one piece and you don’t tilt too terribly to the right or the left. You’re not entirely uncomfortable, just mostly uncomfortable. So, if I get you some leather conditioner and some WD-40, will you try a little harder on your end to not fuck up my back all the time? That’s all I ask really. Well, that and not giving me swamp ass or making my carpel tunnel act up, but let’s start small. Tomorrow, I’ll bring you this and we’ll go from there:

Thanks for your cooperation,

Goldfish