From Under the Couch Cushion

        Dust bunnies pile ontop of me, filling the spaces between my buttons, caking my outer shell, coating my exposed innards with a thick blanket of snow. I sit here under the couch, you know, just your lost clicker.

      It's not so bad being a remote. People drop you, break your back and cause your batteries to show, they throw you across the room, they click your buttons 'till they're sore , and they keep ordering you around until your mind just explodes; then they get mad and yell mean things at you until wake up. But most of all , they lose you.

       Under the couch, between couch cushions , oh-the places I've seen. Last week , I was undignifiedly left beside the toilet. The only good thing about my adventures is the friends I've made.

        In the kitchen, I find great joy in chatting with Blender and Toaster- a few spoons stuck down in the disposal. Under the couch a few lost blocks, puzzle pieces, stuffed animals , even a few socks. In the couch cushions , refuge is found amongst loose change, a handful of moldy Apple Jacks or Cheerios. I have even encountered the most beautiful remote I have ever layed my light upon.

        She had light-up switches, and glow-in-the-dark buttons, the best reception I have ever seen. But alas, she , too, has been misplaced. So I sit here, alone and unloved , batteries low, surrounded by nothing but dust. Not even seeing the light of day, or my old pal T.V.

          So while you blunder about, I will sit here. Waiting and waiting , until one day you pull me out. But  my batteries dead,  you will yell mean things at me and misplace me while on the search for a couple of Double-A's ; and the cycle will forever continue. So , said from under the couch cushion, good luck my Dearest Owner .