Randomness:
There has never been a quiet chair in my house. As big as the chairs may have been, as squishy and comfy as they may have become, they were never quiet. The chairs always gave you away. If you were trying to sneak another slice of cake in the middle of the night before bed and you got out of the chair, it would squeak and bump, like broken unset bones, tattling on your intentions. And after the clatter of the chair's bones, it was most certain that you would hear your mom's voice shriek, "Stay out of that cake!"
I've always had a positive relationship with my chairs, though, their largeness giving me a hugging effect that is sometimes unattainable during the day. My first love was a horrible maroon chair that was dubbed The Purple Chair, which for some reason was housed in my bedroom at our first house in Meriden. At the time of our affair, I was oblivious of the tackiness emitted by The Purple Chair. I would snuggle up into the kushy depths of the chair with a pillow and a book, not quite knowing how to read, but pretending. At night, I couldn't trust my bed. I would awaken so many nights to a thud because I had fallen out of the bed, to the point that, rationally, it made no sense to sleep there anymore. I took to crawling into The Purple Chair after the good nights were said and the coast was clear because the bed was treacherous and the chair had kushy sides that would not let go.