Ladies and gentlemen of the class of 2001, forgive your children for killing your overstuffed armchair.

If I could offer you only one tip for the future, overstuffed-armchair-destruction-forgiveness would be it. The self-improvement benefit of such forgiveness has been proven by scientologists, whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable than the muffled ramblings of a lobotomy patient frolicing in a pile of dead ferrets.
I will dispense this advice now. For the sardonically-challenged, exits are here, here, and here.

Enjoy the power and beauty of your new armchair (the old one having recently been destroyed). You'll only ever buy a new armchair a few times in your life, so enjoy the irritating firmness and lack of stuffing.

Don't worry about the future resale value of your new armchair. Rip off the manufacturer's label, and resell it on ebay as a designer workshop piece. Unfortunately, the same technique won't apply to selling your furniture-destroying children.

Do something each day to scare your kids. The little punks deserve it for destroying your armchair.

Set fire to a hedge.

Don't be reckless with other people's lives. Just be reckless with their furniture. It's what the kids are into these days.

Don't waste your time on jealousy. Sometimes you're ahead, sometimes you're behind. But if you don't leave your comfortable armchair, you won't have to deal with people who own nicer furniture than you.
Just worry about your own furniture, if only to prevent your wayward kids from destroying it.

Forget the compliments your receive. No one is ever totally sincere. Keep a list of the insults people hurl at you. You can use them again later to deride someone else's understuffed armchair.

Keep your old fridge. You never know when you'll want to rip another hole in the ozone layer.
Throw out your kids at age 16. Let them ruin someone else's upholstery.

Don't be concerned if you still don't know what to do with your life at age 30. Murder is on the rise. Chances are, your life will be over soon anyway.

Be kind to your knees. You'll be standing a lot now that your destructive children have taken away your one source of muscular relief. Replace their bed mattress with chipboard, then laugh at their neck pain.

Maybe you'll be an amputee, maybe you won't.
Maybe you'll sell your soul, maybe you won't.
Maybe you'll burn to death in a horrific circus accident.
You choices are half chance. So are everyone else's.

Enjoy your furniture.
Use it every way you can.
Don't be concerned with the latest fashions. Fashions come and go.
Your overstuffed armchair is the greatest instrument you'll ever own.

Practise swearing.
Even if you have nowhere to do it but your own backyard.
Do NOT listen to your neighbours' complaints. If they don't like it, they can live elsewhere.

Live in a hippie commune once, but leave before they decide to "share" your overstuffed armchair.
Live in a trailer park once, but leave before your kids get home from school.

Accept certain inalienable truths: new furniture is uncomfortable and expensive; your children are demon-worshipping destructionists; technology does not make your life easier.
And when you do, you'll fantasise that in your time, life was simpler, people were nicer, and stealing street signs was still cool.

Don't expect anyone to care about your armchair. Least of all, your own children.
Maybe you think you understand them, but try to remember how much you lied to your own parents. You don't know your kids at all.
Get used to it. See it as an opportunity for sociological experimentation.

Shave your kid's head while they're sleeping. Deny all resulting accusals, no matter how pissed off they are.

Be careful whose music you buy. These days, music can be obtained freely online. If you feel guilty, just ignore it. Ripping people off gets easier with time.

So forgive your children for killing your overstuffed armchair. Give them friendly directions to other forms of vandalism, preferably, of the more public variety.

Maybe they'll get arrested and blame your influence.
But trust me on the overstuffed-armchair-destruction-forgiveness.

Inspired by the sunscreen song and this lonely little nodeshell.

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