Couch Surfing

Have you ever slept on a couch for a week straight? How about 3 weeks?

Although I do have a job in New York City, I do not yet have an apartment. So, I am sleeping on a friend's couch on the Upper East Side and probably will be there until early November. (He doesn't know that yet. Hope he doesn't read my blog. Actually, who cares. He better be reading my blog. I'm living with the guy.) For anyone that's ever slept on a couch for a period of time, they know there are two sides to the sofa.

One side is open to the rest of the room. Open to the world...

You're propped up on the pillow, TV remote in your hand, happily clicking away between Sportscenter and HBO's favorite movie to play right now; "Home Alone." Nothing says Christmas movie season quite like October.

You have a plate of chocolate chip cookies resting comfortably on your stomach. In my case, the cookie plate is sliding down towards my waistline. Instead of popping out, my stomach actually indents inward, forming a hole. Some good-ole' fashioned Monagan Malnutrition. Looks and feels similar to this.

You're chit-chatting with your roommate about what to eat tonight, sneaking glances out of the 27th floor window into a brilliant NYC skyline. Hell, maybe you're even balancing a q-tip on your nose or blowing bubbles out of your ears. You're free to do anything on this side of the couch. It opens out into the rest of the room. The possibilities are limitless.

The other side of the couch is a black hole. Where quarters and dreams go to die...

You're having a great baseball conversation with your roommate and Home Alone is just getting to the part where Kevin utters "This is MY house. I have to defend it!" Safe to say, you are pumped up. You're enjoying life on this side of the couch.

Then your phone rings. And it's not in your pocket.

It's ringing with a muffled, suffocating sound. Kind of how a baby would cry if a pillow were pressed on its face.

You know where the phone is and you don't want to reach for it. But you have to. It could be your girlfriend. It could be your boss. It could be Zesty's pizza delivery.

So you turn from the picturesque, New York City night lights and smiling Kevin McCallister and come face to face with leather. Dark, lifeless leather. It's like you just fell down some deep cave in the middle of nowhere. You can't hear. You can't see. No one can hear you. You can barely breathe.

You stuff your unsteady hand deep into the crevices of the couch. You clench your teeth, not knowing what may be hiding under these cushions. Body parts, dead gerbils, old baloney sandwiches. Something could bite you. Someone might grab you and pull you inside. Into the unknown.

I think someone was murdered on this guy's sofa. Even he doesn't know what some of the stuff is:

You end up just leaving your phone inside the monster and waiting until daylight. It's safer then. You pull your face away from the face-sucking suction and are back facing the television. Back facing the world. "Home Alone" is right where it left off and your roommate is still talking about the Yankees. Figures. Time had stopped while you were gone.

So those are the two sides of the couch. Heaven and Hell. I have another couple weeks on the couch in NYC and I hope to stay in the correct position. Don't want to fall into the endless abyss. This video sums up that experience pretty well. The guy in white has entered the wrong side: