I
remember that the chairs in the Concierge Center all had their own deficiency.
It was interesting to note the variations which were consistently present,
though, in the nature of their complaints. One had a bad spine, and would
constantly fall upon the floor when roused; in fact, I think I remember sitting
in that chair about five times before it completely failed me, and then I had
to switch, for my legs were trapped beneath one. And then, of course, there
were always those which had general problems.
There
was one in particular I remember, which had a small, twisted-looking lesion.
Every time I sat in it, I would begin to slide down gradually, until I was
forced into a new seat. This chair had a better stature, but after awhile, I
found that it had problems with its disposition. I would slide deep inside of
its arms and struggle for freedom; the chair would not let me go . . . and at
the end of the day, I would venture that parts of me looked- well, triangular.
It
is important to note that these chairs loved to impress me with their design.
To be honest this was probably the most consistent period of my life in which I
grazed the world of tattoos; where I had previously been particular to marks
burned into my skin, I would find myself flattened, turned, and often
sandwiched between two vertices, and pressed into leaven. I took on the shapes
of all forms and variations . . . in fact, I remember once walking through the
door of my house, and abandoning myself to the closet. I hid myself for two
days straight, but it didn't work as I expected. I got up one morning and
rested idly by the stove, looking for something to eat. I was so thin at this
point, that I was almost transparent, and therefore sitting on the stove was no
issue. In just a few moments, however, my problem had escalated- my mother
accidentally switched me out for a pancake, and I was soon greasing myself in
the skillet . . .
As
you can see, then, there is a bit of fascination which surrounds the chairs.
For me, there is a long relationship of excitement, and I have had many an
encounter with their artful ways. Very seldom has an innocent person sat down
in one of those chairs, at least by my count, and learned to appreciate the
vein of malice by which they're supported. Therefore, this is my message to
those poor souls who still sit, comfortably relaxed in the chair of their
choice; remember that when you are in the Concierge Center, you may find
yourself in a position that you cannot evade . . . literally speaking!
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