One Hundred and Thirty-seven, Mortal Combat - The Pit Stage

obtained from Here

For the past couple months, a certain area of my room was slowly turning into the Mortal Combat level of yesteryear. Up high on my throne I felt nothing until I went to lay my bare feet down on the floor. Splintered plastic stuck up at odd angles out of the floor mat, threatening flesh and fabric alike. Every roll of the chair caused a cacophony of cracks to fill the apartment. My roommate has attested to hearing me rolling around after he's gone to bed.

Be that as it may, I kept it, in true Indian fashion, until it died. Not just died but hemorrhaged out onto my hands. That day of death was when I rolled forward sending a roller through a hole in the mat. Upon rolling back out later on, I pulled the mat apart. Needless to say, I spent the next five minutes rolling together the falling apart mat. It now sits in an empty bean bag box waiting for its sojourn to the dumpster.

My feet caress the soft carpeting under my chair.