Breaking up is hard to do

A memo to my chair at the office:

Dear chair,

How long has it been now since we met? Three years?

I remember how we met. I was hired here at this crappy bank as a teller and my feet were tired.

Your polyester, dark blue hide offered a place to rest, as my dogs were barking and I needed to rest.

You were pure bliss. You swiveled, you rolled. Your various levers allowed me maximum comfort and ergonomic euphoria as I pretended to work in front of my computer screen all day.

Remember the fun we had?

We tweaked the the lumbar support on Rita's chair, and her back was sore for days!

What about the time we glued the wheels of Don's chair to the floor?

And who can forget the awesome job you did tripping the intern, as I kicked you into his path as he walked by the desk. His arm is still in a cast.

And here we are, all these 9-to-5 work days later.

I think we should start sitting with other people.

Your wheels are squeaking, and your arm rests wobble, and you have this really irritating thread that dangles just so off the front of your seat.

Let's not get started on your appearance as of late. You come to work, covered in stains from who knows what: Mustard, coffee, Cheetos crumbs, and you expect to be taken seriously?
Excuse me if I hose you in Febreeze, but your odor is more funky than "Live at the Apollo."

So where do we go from here?

I say we go our separate ways. I'll be honest. There's a new chair just down the way that has a heating element in it's back.

In it's back! You just cannot compete, old office chair.

So, I bid you farewell. We had a great run, and you did manage to sweep me off my feet, and onto your lap.

Now excuse me while I kick you to the curb, in the general directon of the driver-side doors on my boss' new Mercedes.

Cheers,
-- Lloyd