FOUR-LEGGED LOSER

All the four-legged wooden chair wanted to be was a super soft sofa when it grew up, just like the sofa in the room the two pieces of furniture shared. It waited for what seemed like wood-years (one wood year is approximately 14 human years) to enter sofa-puberty. The chair checked itself constantly to see if there was hair or wool or cotton where there was no hair or wool or cotton before. It also measured itself constantly, to see if it was beginning a growth spurt which would not end until it was the full-length of a sofa.

The chair was jealous of the sofa across the room. The sofa saw more ass than the chair could dream of. Day after day, anyone who entered the room would almost beeline towards the sofa. The only ass the chair saw were the stragglers, the ones who couldn't plant their ass on the sofa quick enough, or the ones who were ejected from the sofa by a seemingly patriarchal figure. The stragglers or the ejected didn't beeline towards the chair; they hung their heads in defeat and sauntered slowly towards the wooden chair. Once, just once did the chair want to feel like it was their first choice. And the chair thought that the only way this was going to happen was to become a sofa.

The chair was in for a rather large disappointment. Y'see, neither the lumberjacks who cut the wood down, nor the lumber store that filed the wood down, nor the designer who put the wood together, told the chair that the chair was only a chair, and would not be anything else but a chair.