James here. Look. I saw the couch. I saw the ottoman. I saw the narrow crevice between them and thought: Yes. That’s my throne.

I perched.
Feet up like royalty.
Butt suspended in the crack like a toddler trapeze act.
Elbows locked on the couch cushions like I’m bracing for impact — or delivering a TED Talk on snack dominance.

Jack Jack said, “Why are you sitting like that?”
I said, “Why are you sitting like a civilian?”

Mom glanced over. Didn’t flinch. She knows the vibe.
This isn’t a phase.
This is a lifestyle.
This is ergonomic chaos.

I ate my Apple Jacks Pop-Tart like a man who’s conquered furniture.
I am the bridge.
I am the ottoman ambassador.
I am the couch cryptid.

AITA for refusing to sit like a normal person?
No.
I’m just built different.