Ladies and gentlemen of the class of 2001, forgive your children for killing your overstuffed
armchair.
If I could offer you only one tip for the
future, overstuffed-armchair-destruction-forgiveness would be it. The
self-improvement benefit of such forgiveness has been proven by scientologists, whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more
reliable than the muffled ramblings of a
lobotomy patient frolicing in a pile of dead ferrets.
I will dispense this
advice now. For the sardonically-challenged, exits are
here,
here, and
here.
Enjoy the
power and
beauty of your new armchair (the old one having recently been destroyed). You'll only ever buy a new armchair a few times in your life, so enjoy the
irritating firmness and lack of stuffing.
Don't worry about the future resale value of your new armchair. Rip off the manufacturer's label, and resell it on
ebay as a designer workshop piece. Unfortunately, the same
technique won't apply to selling your furniture-destroying
children.
Do something each day to
scare your kids. The little punks deserve it for destroying your armchair.
Sing.
Dance.
Set
fire to a hedge.
Don't be reckless with other people's lives. Just be reckless with their
furniture. It's what the kids are into these days.
Don't waste your time on jealousy. Sometimes you're ahead, sometimes you're behind. But if you don't leave your comfortable armchair, you won't have to deal with people who own nicer furniture than you.
Just worry about your own furniture, if only to prevent your
wayward kids from destroying it.
Forget the compliments your receive. No one is ever totally
sincere. Keep a list of the insults people hurl at you. You can use them again later to deride someone else's understuffed armchair.
Keep your old fridge. You never know when you'll want to rip another
hole in the ozone layer.
Throw out your kids at age 16. Let them ruin someone else's
upholstery.
Don't be concerned if you still don't know what to do with your life at age 30. Murder is on the rise. Chances are, your life will be over soon anyway.
Be kind to your knees. You'll be standing a lot now that your destructive children have taken away your one source of muscular relief. Replace their bed mattress with chipboard, then laugh at their
neck pain.
Maybe you'll be an
amputee, maybe you won't.
Maybe you'll sell your soul, maybe you won't.
Maybe you'll burn to death in a horrific
circus accident.
You choices are half chance. So are everyone else's.
Enjoy your furniture.
Use it every way you can.
Don't be concerned with the latest fashions. Fashions come and go.
Your overstuffed armchair is the greatest
instrument you'll ever own.
Practise
swearing.
Even if you have nowhere to do it but your own backyard.
Do NOT listen to your neighbours' complaints. If they don't like it, they can live elsewhere.
Live in a
hippie commune once, but leave before they decide to "share" your overstuffed armchair.
Live in a
trailer park once, but leave before your kids get home from school.
Accept certain inalienable truths: new furniture is uncomfortable and
expensive; your children are demon-worshipping destructionists; technology does not make your life easier.
And when you do, you'll fantasise that in your time, life was simpler, people were nicer, and
stealing street signs was still cool.
Don't expect anyone to care about your armchair. Least of all, your own children.
Maybe you think you understand them, but try to remember how much you lied to your own parents. You don't know your kids at all.
Get used to it. See it as an opportunity for
sociological experimentation.
Shave your kid's head while they're sleeping. Deny all resulting accusals, no matter how pissed off they are.
Be careful whose music you buy. These days, music can be obtained freely online. If you feel guilty, just ignore it. Ripping people off gets easier with time.
So forgive your children for killing your overstuffed armchair. Give them friendly directions to other forms of
vandalism, preferably, of the more public variety.
Maybe they'll get arrested and
blame your influence.
But trust me on the overstuffed-armchair-destruction-forgiveness.
Inspired by the sunscreen song and this lonely little nodeshell.