February 9th, 2006

(no subject)

The
Couch Massacre.
She picked up the sledgehammer and flexed her muscles, shooting a look in my general direction.


I proceeded to uncork one of the eight bottles I'd just recently stolen from the hole in the wall on the corner of our street.


It had been nearly seven months sitting on a couch with heinous flower pattern pillows that began to slide onto the floor with a single seating. It had been far too long a life for one to live before it was finally crucified for its crimes, hung from the gallows, slit at the wrists and throat, and massacred over the head our own weapon of choice. With a new couch on the way from Craigslist, a dying urge for destruction, and just enough stolen wine gulped, it was time to reach into the deep depths of our hatred and pull out a wallowing, screaming, merciless monster of brutality. And as we gulped, the monster inside of us became uglier, smellier, slimier, and more and more gruesome with every glance in the couch's direction. At the end of the first bottle, it was finally time. After seven months, it was time to tear that mother fucker apart until it was no more.

And with the sledgehammer she roared, violent in her anger and madness and unstoppable in her swing, her poise, her staggering brutality and bloodshed. It was obvious after two or three blows that the couch would not survive this mugging, and yet she continued to swing the monstrous construction tool as if it could not possibly do enough damage to this demon that had long overstayed its welcome in our home. She swung and swung and destroyed and demolished and obliterated all the life out of the back of the couch, and then she handed the hammer over to me. Although I had not been around to experience just how awful it could be to carry such a beast up two flights of stairs, or to spend nearly two years in its unwanted presence, I had indeed grown to know the obnoxious tendencies and disgusting appearance of the couch I was now staring at, sledgehammer in hand. It may have not been my worst enemy, but the combination of vibe, wine, and minimal experience was just enough to fuel my aggression enough to swing my hardest. I wasn't thinking of past regrets, hated lovers, or unexpected highschool back-stabbings when I took my first swing, but after feeling the impact shake every bone and muscle in my arms and up through my torso, I knew that destroying this couch the way it deserved to be destroyed would take a great load of past hostility. So I took a deep breath along with a few sips of wine from the second bottle, and I looked at the couch in a way I had never looked at it before. Its flowers turned into hippie attire on the Burlington marketplace and cherry blossom tattoos on stomachs and chests and elbows. Its shredding backboard transformed suddenly into shaggy hair and unrequited kisses. Its untouched armrest instantly reminded me of all the villains and all the drugs and all the-

Suddenly I swung. I had not intended or expected it, but my arm became victim to my marvelous visions and swung before I had the chance to tell it to, and sure enough, the armrest I had been staring at felt the insane impact of the sledgehammer, separating it from the rest of the couch, all on its way to absolute annihilation. The swing was so invigorating, and after a few more swings and practical injecions of adrenaline into my system of past spite, I decided I'd had my fill. I handed the sledgehammer back to Bunny, pulled out my knife, and began cutting away at loose fabric, filling, and simply disconnecting our ruins from the structure of the couch that we were still avidly working at.

After thirty minutes and another bottle of wine, we were sufficiently drunk, and the couch was sufficiently destroyed. We'd showed no mercy just as Bunny had wished for, and we had relieved a great number of tensions we hadn't even known were present until having a sledgehammer at our malicious fingertips. It was amazing the freedom we all felt; the release of unaddressed burdens weighing down our shoulders by smashing the living shit out of a giant piece of wood, stuffing, and fabric. The remains were tossed off the balcony into the trash pile -- nothing but a hide-a-bed frame without the mattress, and the crumbs of our feast for destruction were vacuumed up into a bag of dust and nothingness. The couch was gone, finally, and we felt like untouchable masters of destruction with the recognized embodiment of all the things we hated previously, sitting there in front of us, decorated with flowers and ridiculously uncomfortable seating. It became apparent, at least to me, that the obliteration of our couch had been fueled by many more things than just the slipping of couch cushions onto the floor whenever a butt blessed it; it was a detailed exploration of the detestations we'd harbored so deep that only a sledgehammer in hand had the power to externalize.

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