“I really want this microfiber love seat,” you said.
“I’m going to pay for the Scotchgard treatment,” you promised.
“I’m going to have this thing forever,” you told your mom.
My, oh my how things have changed. I was once a prized possession of yours and now I’m trashed out on the streets of Hollywood. You’ve left me here to rot. I thought we were bros. Sure you had your hoes, but they never got in between us for long. Post hook-up, you had a strict, “Girl, get your shit and go” policy. It worked for us.
I accepted the fact that you never got around to getting me that Scotchgard. Instead I welcomed you with open cushions as you placed your filthy feet on my arms and lay your greasy hair against my back. Yeah it smelled like burnt popcorn and baby vomit, but I never tried to change you. It was all going so well until she moved in.
Are you stupid? You must be stupid. That’s the only reason I think for why you would let your girlfriend, Stara move in after only six months of dating. You’re only twenty-three years old! You’re not supposed to be living with some girl with a made-up name. You’re supposed to be passing out on top of me and then waking up with cotton mouth as you try to piece together the events of the previous night while you chug the warm Mountain Dew that perpetually sits on the cardboard box you use as a coffee table.
It’s like I don’t even know you anymore. Stara has you twisted. Since when did we need a dining room table and hand towels? The day before you threw me to the curb, I watched in horror as you ate an organic banana. Are you effing kidding me!?! Organic? That’s just some NPR propaganda. Your banana is protected by its hardy peel and since you don’t eat the peel, who cares if it’s sprayed with the tears of failing family farms. Wait Wait…Don’t Tell Me. Stara has convinced you that having some kind of health awareness is somehow going to make your sex life better? Well, guess what? It won’t. Now that you’re living together, you can forget about her ever appreciating you with your pants off. Instead of mid-day smashing, she’ll spend her lunch hour with her co-worker Cody at Chipotle and you’ll be left with a Post-It on a vacuum asking you to “Please have this finished before I get home.” And since you’ve proven to be a little bitch, there you’ll be, vacuuming the apartment for the third time that week while wearing the flannel pajama pants she now makes you wear in order to shield you from touching her with your bare manhood as she sleeps.
So fine! Leave me here. I’d rather be a piece of trash on the street than a dude who throws his bros and his youth away to play house with a chick who has Hepatitis C. Yup, that’s right. I overheard her talking on the phone to her friend Amber. And in Amber’s infinite wisdom, she advised her not to tell you. As my last act of friendship, I thought I’d save you the visit to the doctor and the outrageous bill that would follow since you failed to sign up for Obamacare by the deadline.
Hep C Before Me,
Microfiber the Man Couch