Dear crapass couches that I bought off of craigslist a few days ago,
Crapass couches, I'm sorry, but I've had it. I have attacked your cushions, your armrests, and your frames with every cleaning element known to man, and you just don't get it, do you? I thought, when I first vacuumed you completely (twice in a row, both of you, just to make sure) that you might start to get the hint that I would very much like it if you would just give up your old dirt, dust, and dinge in order to accept your new lives as sparklingly well-adjusted citizens of my new living room. I think any reasonable piece of furniture really would think as such, were it subjected to such a thorough preliminary routing. But you persisted to cling to your dinginess, and to your water damage stains, didn't you? And that's when the barrage of different upholstery cleaning products began. I'm sure you'll remember the first foam-- the one that took for-effing-ever to dry, and then did not, as promised, "loosen even the most deeply ground-in dirt from your high-traffic areas?" And then the oxyclean. And the special brushes. And the blotting with numerous damp, color-stay towels.
Now, looking back on things, that's the part that really sickens me. I stayed with you through all of that, thinking that you had just fallen on hard times and needed just a little bit of help and support before you could see the light-- or look good in it, at least. But did you deliver? No. You didn't even try. You just sat there and let ME do all the work. Typical, couches. Typical.
So that's it. We're over. As soon as I get any more time, money, and gumption, I'm slipcovering your asses beyond all recognition.
And I think the three of us can agree that that's far better than you deserve.
You've brought this upon yourselves, couches,
Kat
Crapass couches, I'm sorry, but I've had it. I have attacked your cushions, your armrests, and your frames with every cleaning element known to man, and you just don't get it, do you? I thought, when I first vacuumed you completely (twice in a row, both of you, just to make sure) that you might start to get the hint that I would very much like it if you would just give up your old dirt, dust, and dinge in order to accept your new lives as sparklingly well-adjusted citizens of my new living room. I think any reasonable piece of furniture really would think as such, were it subjected to such a thorough preliminary routing. But you persisted to cling to your dinginess, and to your water damage stains, didn't you? And that's when the barrage of different upholstery cleaning products began. I'm sure you'll remember the first foam-- the one that took for-effing-ever to dry, and then did not, as promised, "loosen even the most deeply ground-in dirt from your high-traffic areas?" And then the oxyclean. And the special brushes. And the blotting with numerous damp, color-stay towels.
Now, looking back on things, that's the part that really sickens me. I stayed with you through all of that, thinking that you had just fallen on hard times and needed just a little bit of help and support before you could see the light-- or look good in it, at least. But did you deliver? No. You didn't even try. You just sat there and let ME do all the work. Typical, couches. Typical.
So that's it. We're over. As soon as I get any more time, money, and gumption, I'm slipcovering your asses beyond all recognition.
And I think the three of us can agree that that's far better than you deserve.
You've brought this upon yourselves, couches,
Kat
4 Comments:
Hahaha. I win.
Kat, you're still pretty.
Couches are almost right: you're the prettiest.
You had your chance with me. That's all I'm going to say.
Couches,
I think it's only fair to warn you that I have just returned home from the library with Linda Neubauer's "The Complete Photo Guide to Slipcovers: Transform Your Furniture with Fitted or Casual Covers," and will spend the next few hours committing it to memory.
Say your prayers.
Kat
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