Another Pleasant Sunday Night

Nate sat down hard on the softest sofa he had ever felt. His head jerked back violently when he bottomed out on the marshmallow of a cushion, and his arms flapped as if he was hoping to get airborne.

"Now what," he slurred to himself as he tried desperately to regain a semblance of composure, "was I sitting down for?"

His eyes wandered jerkily about the room as he pondered this question.

"I'm either here to sit and think, or I'm here to sit and drink. I don't see any bottles, so maybe it's thinking time."

He muttered those words as he slowly slid down and out of the overstuffed sofa. He passed out before he was completely prone on the floor. Thinking time would, once again, come in second to drinking time.