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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.

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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.

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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.