The chair Lesley settled into was molded around him: his back had dug a groove into the chair’s back, his ass eroded two pockets into the flattened cushion. It was shaped like him and it smelled like him, but there the similarities ended (except that it looked much nicer a long time ago). He frowned at it, disappointed that it hadn’t somehow improved itself while he’d been away—and “away” meant retrieving a tube of Pringles and a liter of Mountain Dew—but it was what it was and he turned it with his thigh toward his approaching ass. Whatever else was going on with this piece of IKEA junk, it could support him without complaint. He shrugged and logged into Olivia’s Boudoir, then broke into the chips while the site loaded. Crappy computer, crappy internet service: life was so hard, all the time! Everything was rotten, he thought, forking several pizza-flavored chips into his mouth and wiping his fingers on his shirt. Everything always had to be so much work, nothing could ever be simple. The way the tamper ring stayed affixed to the soda bottle cap, how the letters on his keyboard had faded along the home row and the ones outside of those were grimy with food and human funk.
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