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By Logan Booker
Aug 26, 2008 | 2 Comments

I can’t remember the last time I slept in my own bed.

From this statement, one could assume there’s something terribly wrong with my usual place of rest. While it does sag in the middle, as I lack the strength to tighten the nuts to keep it in a more upright position, it’s perfectly serviceable. Oh, and it has a really big mattress; one that could serve as a temporary life-raft should Sydney’s inner suburbs ever experience torrential rain and extensive flooding.

No, I stopped sleeping in my room and started snoozing on the couch ever since my 42in LCD TV arrived. The moment I slipped its sleek, sexy black form from its cardboard shipping box, I’ve been inexplicitly drawn to it, much like an action movie bullet to an exposed petrol tank.

Now I find every reason I can to drift off in front of its magnificence. Recently I’ve been serenaded into dreamland by the authoritative yet staggered prose of Captain Kirk. But before that it was MacGyver, and before his mullet-crowned greatness, Dr John Dorian. It’s not unusual these days to see my prone, settee-bound form from the breakfast table, mumbling instructions on how to build a lifelike Zach Braff doll using nothing but a paperclip, duct tape and a photon torpedo (there’s a tutorial in that –ed).

This isn’t so weird. Well, it’s not in the same league as furries, people who love furries, and people who really love furries. What is weird is that the couch is slowly transforming into my new bedroom. Empty cans sit next to its feet, plates are often left piled on the coffee table and a washing basket full of dirty laundry is in easy reach of my undeveloped arms.

I don’t think my flatmates minded my video entertainment-fuelled relocation initially. I don’t think they even had an issue with the cans, plates and clothes. What probably raised concerns, and this is just a guess, was when I started changing in the lounge room, and as we all know, lounge rooms are notorious for not having doors. Well, it was either the changing in the open, or watching hardcore porn while guests were over for dinner. One of the two.

Anyway, I’ve been told to pick up all my crap and move back upstairs, otherwise it’s hard for them to justify why I need my actual bedroom. I argued that my actual bed was still in there, until they politely pointed out that it, too, had miraculously made the trip downstairs and was ever-so-quietly supplanting the couch as the lounge room’s prime real estate.

Realising that what they were doing was, in effect, an intervention, I nodded in sad agreement. I’ve been given one last night to explain my departure to the couch. And the TV. I don’t know how I’m going to go about it, but I reckon if I whack on some MacGyver and sleep on it, the answer will come to me.

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2 Comments

Thoughts on this article? Add a comment below.

colganaitor Oct 30, 2008 7:25 AM	Why not put the TV in your room?
Tyno Nov 3, 2008 11:49 AM	Flatmates, would mean there are other people wanting to watch it as well. Also getting a TV upstairs and then having to go upstairs just to watch it would be a pain.

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