bean bag

The monotony of post-Christmas winter is slow and grating.  I have spent odd moments of freedom sinking into an oversized bean bag, wishing it would swallow me whole, like a dead star with a kind-streak, wrapping me in microfiber as it gently encompasses and eventually crushes me with memory foam.  How cliche is it to wish to be smothered out of January-misery by a cushy black hole I think to myself.  

"I fucking love this bean bag," I tell my friends, and they nod and smile politely.   No, I mean it, I fucking love it.