Nichole's cleaning of The Kitchen has thrust her to the forefront of House politics.

THE KITCHEN – With all the political smoke blown, it seems that something is finally being accomplished. Over the past six months, officials and representatives have done nothing but bicker about specificities, and back-door deals have been cut at a rapid pace. But, finally, something has been done. The Blue House Kitchen is clean.

Who’s to blame for such an achievement?

“I hate to say it,” said Nichole, “but I have to take all the credit. I did some dishes, scrubbed the counter, and even swept the floor. You can start thanking me now.”

If true, this feat is yet another example of Nichole’s unyielding efforts to improve The House’s questionable living conditions. Her victory seemingly trumps politicos who debated and strategized and then said it couldn’t be done. And last year, as it is today, all attention centers on The Kitchen.

“Last year, there was a political points to be earned if you could tackle The Kitchen,” Jeff L. Horner, The Blue House Lives’s senior political analyst stated. “There was an upstart who failed (as they all do) and countless others, and yet, all one really needed to do was to roll up a sleeve and get to cleaning. That’s exactly what Nichole has done.”

So, now that The Kitchen problem has been reined in, what is next for The Blue House?

“Two words,” Horner said. “Immigration reform.” When probed further, Horner went on to explain that The Blue House has always been a quiet victim of immigration abuses. “Take the Couch Surfer,” he said, “he’s immigrated and emigrated and migrated several times. Who’s regulating this?”

Nichole's supporters see her as a symbol of hope, and they have taken to painting her likeness on walls across America.

Pundits now believe that The House might put forth a bipartisan effort to mollify these woes.

And yet, with her triumph in The Kitchen, one has to ask: what role will Nichole play?

“In a sense,” Horner said, “Nichole is a beneficiary of legal immigration, as she came from that desolation known as Washington State. She will definitely have some input.”

At the moment, Nichole has not commented on immigration policy. She seems wholly content to perch atop her hoard of political gold earn from single-handedly pacifying Kitchen problem. Her support, however, is exponentially growing, as fans have taken to painting her likeness throughout the country. “She is becoming a symbol of hope to many people associated with The House,” Horner said. “If the other residents want to get their support back, they are going to have to act quickly and decisively.”

The couch's unkempt condition was evidence of the Couch Surfer's presence.

THE BLUE HOUSE – In The Study, I almost immediately noticed it: the crumpled blanket, the disheveled cushions and the pillow carved out in the shape of a head. Like the three little bears, someone has been sleeping on The Study’s couch. It was then, at that very moment, I realized it: the Couch Surfer was back.

I do not pretend to know where he came from or his over-arching intentions. What I do know is that he needed somewhere to rest, and he chose The Study’s couch to do so. This choice gives me a sense of great pride, for The Study’s couch is my couch, and my couch, at least for one night, was the Couch Surfer’s couch. So, as I cleared my groggy eyes, I stared blankly at that periwinkle couch and wondered where the Couch Surfer was and what he was up to. Then, a cry reached my ears:

“Damn.”

I strolled through The House with a purpose and found my way into The East Wing. Sitting and beaming directly at the television was the Couch Surfer. He was deeply engrossed in a game of war, Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2. Obviously, he wasn’t doing so well.

“Damn it,” he screamed.

“Not fighting so well?” I asked.

“Just dying too much.”

This statement is not something one hears very often, and it seemingly only makes sense with regard to the video game world. Then again, I took notice of the circumstances surrounding me. The Couch Surfer was back, and he was dying an awful lot. Yet, luckily for him, he instantly respawns every time he perishes. It must be nice, I thought.

Then again, there are many facets in life where one thinks they’re beaten and finished, but all one really needs to do is think of life as a video game. As long as one is still breathing and one’s heart still pumping, one can immediately respawn and try again. What a nice idea, I thought. I stared hard at the Couch Surfer as he yelled into the television.

The Couch Surfer was found fighting a television war.

“Damn it. That was my kill.”

He had been back merely a moment, and he was already teaching life lessons. The reflection, while profound to me, is simply another day in the life of that vagrant sage, the Couch Surfer.

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July 20, 2009 – The Couch Surfer Revealed

There is much to tell and comprehend in such a short period of time. Where to begin is the problem that always seems to face me. (acknowledge photo) When he was a young lad he had a larger than average bed. Although it all seems inconsequential now….. as he grew up, or older may be a better way of stating it, the larger than average size shrank. Now, a mere shadow of its former self, remains. But I digress… let me skip ahead to the part you want to read about.

It all began some years ago. A young boy longing to think he was a man, gives up his bed. His privacy followed immediately afterwards. Without the modesty of a bed, a door, or walls, the young fellow simply aged but never grew up. Some years later a bed was found. By comparison it was gigantic. It was comfortable, and the new owner relished its existence to the fullest. The happiness that was gained while in ownership and its use, couldn’t begin to fathom the depths of despair that were soon to follow.

The Couch Surfer observed in the wild.

There where signs to be read but the anal retentive and indecisive boy had in fact turned into a man. Little did he know that his faith in fate had deceived him, and set a plank at his feet. He was about to find its end. His cruise control malfunctioning, he just ignored the problem and continued onward. Life had tried to teach him to push forward through the past. The past is behind you he would tell himself, but oh how his thoughts haunted him at night. Putting himself on the rack and then forcefully suffocating all ties to a life he pretended to enjoy, he slept. Sleeping away the day, the light, sometimes he would sleep through what would later be called “the most fun anyone has had in months.” The pride of his stubbornness would win quite a battle.

The unpredictability of the ambiguous young man would be proven a lie. He whom called himself an original and honest person was beginning to doubt himself all over again.

“What if everything I believe is backwards. What if one of the two people I despise most in this world, is actually good and I am the evil one?”

For years this thought has haunted him but only recently had he actually sat down to think about it. He once told me that writing was his way of expressing himself.

“Writing something beautiful is like creating something so wonderful that it should be criminal to not share with the whole world. It is like discovering something so awe inspiring that every being on earth might focus more on the needs of others if only for a moment. That single solitary moment could change the views of a generation. And yet when I write things that I read over and enjoy, I do just the opposite. I hide them. I care not that I may be recognized and congratulated for them. Not to say that such a thought has not crossed my mind. But what’s more pressing is just the opposite. What if no one enjoys it or if no one understands. The understanding of such a thing is quite often a reflection of the times, I tell myself. But could my soul withstand such a moral bruising? Could my ego take a hit of such loving admiration or disdain? “

He would go on to say that he has only shown a few pieces of his writing to anyone other than one of his English professors and that was later turned in as an assignment. The original copies of which where turned in and are now destroyed.

His family had tried to encourage a drastic change in his life, habits, and motives. Friends would try the same and employ other approaches. Mostly they just hoped he would take the hint and try. Still his stubbornness persisted. No one really know why he acts or does the things he does, but most people believe that if he would apply himself, he could do anything. (This writer acknowledges the corniness of that last line but fails to find a better choice of words at this time.)

Something finally did get him onto that drastically changed path. He would never admit what it was. Even now, with all the facts as they are laid out before me, I don’t believe even he could identify it. All I know is that somewhere along the way he got himself lost again. Not that he could ever ask for it, but now is when he is in need of the most help. Until he can pull himself together, put his inhibitions aside and step out of his shell, you will find him cruising the waves at night.