The Couch By The Neapolitan Mastiff

“So what would you say was the breaking point?”

“Breaking point?”

“You know, the straw that broke the camel’s back or whatever.”

“Oh, I’d say the couch.”

“The couch?”

“Yeah, definitely. The couch.”

“How so?”

“Well she just didn’t get how it worked. It was a major point of stress,” he waves his hand searching for the word. “It was, uh,”

“The breaking point?”

“Exactly.”

“I’m not sure I follow. She didn’t like the couch or something?”

“She hated the couch. She didn’t understand the system of it and the purpose it served in my room.”

“To be sat on?”

“Not at all! There are a million places to sit in an apartment: chairs, the floor, the bed, the coffee table, the list goes on. I sit on the sink when I’m brushing my teeth. Or I used to until it started getting huge cracks.”

“So what was the couch for?”

“It’s a very simple system and one I’ve been using for years, okay?”

“Okay.”

“So if you have clean clothes, where do they go?”

“In the closet?”

“Ding, ding, ding. You are correct, sir. Clean clothes hang in the closet.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Next question, you have dirty clothes, now where do they go?”

“In the hamper?”

“Hamper? That sounds like diaper. I don’t even wanna know what that is.”

“It’s a ….”

“I said I don’t wanna know. I’ll repeat the question, where do dirty clothes go?”

“In the laundry.”

“Yes, eventually, but that’s not the right answer,” he guffaws. “Dirty clothes go on the floor. In a pile.”

“Hmm.”

“Hmm, hmm, what? You’ve gotta problem with that?”

“Well, it just seems silly, why don’t you keep them in a basket or something like everyone else.”

“You caught me at a fragile time. You bombarded me with personal questions and now you’re going to insult the habits that I’ve had for my entire life, How dare…”

“Look, I’m sorry. I get it. Dirty clothes go on the floor.”

“Ding, ding, ding! I’ll give you that one. You’re two for two!” he takes a deep breath. “Our final question, dun, dun, dun! Take as much time as you need on this one.”

“Okay, I will.”

“When clothes are neither, A. clean and hanging in the closet or B. dirty and in a pile on the floor, where do these in-between dirty and clean clothes go?”

“Umm. Can I get an example?”

“Of what? Of the clothes?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t have any in-between clothes with me. They’re where they belong in my apartment, which is what you’re trying to figure out. Where are they?”

“How does something become in-between clean and dirty?”

“Easy, you wore a clean shirt to get a coffee, but it’s really hot and you were sort of sweating when you wore it so you decide to change your shirt before you go to wherever you were going. The shirt’s not dirty, but you wouldn’t wear it on a date either.”

“What’s the purpose of in-between clothes?”

“Say you’re going to the grocery store, put on an in-between shirt. Or say you’re going to the gym or the beach. In-between shirt.”

“Hmm.”

“There you go with that God damn, hmm.”

“Sorry.”

“So where do the in-between clothes go?”

“I’d say if it’s closer to clean, hang it up and if it’s closer to dirty. Throw it on the floor.”

“Ah! You idiot! You’re missing the point! There’s a third place!”

“Oh.”

“See this is why we broke up. She thought like you. She didn’t understand the third place was vital to not accidentally wearing a dirty shirt while also not doing too much laundry. Get it?!”

“It sounds sort of ridiculous.”

“Fine, I’ll just break it down into simpler terms. If it’s clean, it goes in the closet, if it’s dirty it goes on the floor and if it’s in-between, if it’s neither clean nor dirty, it gets laid out on the couch. The laying out is a split between hanging up and throwing on the floor.”

“Seems like a waste of a couch.”

“It seems like you have no idea what you’re talking about! It’s fucking genius!”

“Okay.”

“Anyway, that’s basically why we broke up. She didn’t get it.”