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.
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.