Bag o' Doom

Never mind. Never mind that last post. I would delete it, but sometimes, documentation of my own silliness is necessary.

Maddi was sitting on her bean bag, and said that it smelled like Andrew. I jumped away from my chips and salsa to steal it from her, and absorb the smell. She was right.
That was a week ago.

Since then, I've given this bean bag so many different looks. I've given this bag scowls, and pursed lips of anger. I've winced at it. I've yelled at it. I've wanted to throw up on it. I've blinked at it. I've leaned towards it. I sometimes jerk like I want to go to it, but I can't, because I don't care. (?)This bag makes me angry. This bean bag makes me sad. It makes me confused. And sometimes, it drains all feeling out of me. I don't want to get too close, or something might waft to my button nose, and trigger something.

Right now, I'm laying on it. I can't find the spot anymore.