Down down I go

I pulled the folding metal chair; the only chair in the kitchen, up by the oven. I shouldn't have. And I sat on it, but I shouldn't have. And I fried my perogies in margarine. The son of god appeared with his wide eyes and told me they'd be good with sour cream. Yeah, I know but I don't have any. That's okay. They're bacon-onion perogies. No cheese. I might try them with plum sauce. The Bro appeared, checked us out, spied my meal, rubbed his big black belly.

And then the chair went; melted below me like butter. I was eased quickly to the floor.

Not good. My roomies went into action, each took an arm, helped me plant my feet. "You'll have to use all your weight for leverage," I said, "like football players do. Don't worry. I won't let you go." Few understand this. Every student should be shown football clips so they learn how to effortlessly pick people up. They tried. I got to one knee.

"You can do it," they said. I could not. And the knee was getting crushed. I'd have to go back down. The hope drained out of me. All of it.

"I can't." From nowhere the third roommate had appeared. I felt his arms go around me from behind. They all lifted and suddenly I was on my feet.

"We got you," they said. "We love you," they said. My eyes leaked as they hugged me. These men I barely know. The wide-eyed son of god and the Bro and the hairy skinny high dude.

"It's an abusive relationship," says Jerry Seinfeld with regards to humanity and we. "Just when you want to give up on them, they do one nice thing, and suck you back in."