I slid my ass into the side chair. The chair waiting with crusted spaghetti from last weeks dinner, and crumble crackers, cake, mmmm delicious. 

If a table could talk it would speak about unfathomable abuse. Chair sat in informal. Cushions used as table napkins, stained and lacking luster. The table top itself was either covered, or had Freddy Pebble frozen pebbles on it. Somehow, don't ask me how, but somehow, those little pebbles dry to little rocky terrors, unable to swipe clean without taking a serious measure of butter knifing to it. Minuscule fingerprints lay amongst the shiny wooden top. A top that has keepen its chin up, considering the several attempts of glass ring stains. 

Yes, if my table could talk it would speak of the abuse. Thank God I found this table at the dump. (Dumps-a place once frowned upon, but now you can score traded goods). 

My table, while sturdy, has been getting more than it can stomach lately. A fight broke out between my currently mentally ill husband, and myself. I keep our fights away from my children, but the table can talk. If the table spoke its piece, it would sound like this. A bias table it is. Bias to my side. 

I told my husband he needed to stay elsewhere this week. His mania, and shopping have not only put us in financial dept, but he also lacks the capacity to take ownership. I dealt with him. What I didn't anticipate was the kids running with him. Sad Sasha.

DUN, DUN, DUN!