It's been floating around our office for a decade or more*. Before that, I suspect the chair was a train-hopping tramp. It probably came out west during the Great Depression looking for work and then loitered on the streets of Seattle for a few decades until someone from The Stranger gave it a job (even though, like most of us, it had no discernible qualifications). The last four months, its job has been to torture me.

Notice the exposed metal. This metal will cut a bitch. One of my predecessors attempted to mitigate tetanus risks by tying a plastic bag around one of the arms. I was going to do the other arm but I could only find trash bags. The only thing more soul-crushing than sitting in a chair with plastic bags for arms is sitting in a chair with trash bags for arms, so I gave up.

I bought a new chair.

My new chair doesn't feel like it's been stuffed with the shattered dreams of children. Sitting in it doesn't feel like being spanked. I wheeled/drug my old chair into our editorial "receiving" room. It is now reserved for visiting dignitaries. I told the chair to consider it a promotion.

*I've heard the seat stains—and smell—are courtesy of Brad Steinbacher, who left the paper in 2008. He and this chair evidently went through a lot of shit together.