Doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo

That's Twilight Zone music.

Yes it is.

Ok. I've got a problem. It's a small problem. Sort of like a pimple. But not really like a pimple because I can slap 50 layers of makeup on a pimple and voila it's not a problem anymore.

It's more like a boil. You can't cover up a boil. -- No, I don't have a boil. My problem is this:

See, one day, the arm on my office chair just popped off. I felt all powerful and destructive, like a female wrestler hopped up on endorphins and Twizzlers. But it was irreparable. So I went to my local Staples and bought me a fancy new chair.

It took me ages to put it together. But once done, it was a masterpiece of office equipment. My booty was nice and comfy. I made sure I didn't use my super strength on the arms. And try to roll gently.

But.(Ironic, the word "but".)

But, at some point, either my butt has gotten larger and heavier or something in the chair is malfunctioning. Because as I sit typing this, my chin is right above the desk and my arms are practically over my head to reach the keyboard. I've fiddled and adjusted and yelled at and coaxed and pleaded and bribed and nothing I do keeps my chair from sinking about 8 inches. But see, it's tricky, this thing. It's not like, dropping down suddenly like a ride at Disney.

Nay, it's slowly sinking. Just slow enough to make me forget I'm going to be 6 inches shorter in an hour. Just slow enough to make me wonder if that Mini Snickers bar was laced with brick dust and if I should have used the recumbant bicycle this morning instead of hanging my wet towel on it. Just slow enough to make me wonder if my arms being slowly pulled out of their sockets by my lengthening reaches and if I'll resemble a caveman by Friday.

Just slow enough to write this.

This gives whole new meaning to low riding.