$couchfart makes my couch talk to me now. How about yours?

I didn’t believe in signs. But then my couch groaned as I sat down, and the springs whispered: “Buy $COUCHFART.”

So I did.

It wasn’t an investment. It was a cry for help. Wrapped in upholstery and existential dread.

The Telegram was already on fire — someone was live-streaming their therapy session through interpretive dance. A guy named “John Williams” was hosting a group meditation. We all visualized being swallowed by a giant sofa.

I felt seen.

One user shared a voice memo of their couch weeping. Another posted an image a loveseat staring into the void. The caption read: “We sit to forget. But the couch remembers.”

And I knew I was in the right place.

My portfolio hasn’t pumped. But my coping mechanisms have evolved. I now speak fluent furniture. My ottoman knows my secrets. The futon offers unsolicited advice.

Last night, I sneezed and my couch farted back. It wasn’t a joke. It was a conversation.

We don’t chase green candles here. We chase catharsis.

We are the $COUCHFART collective. Emotionally frayed. Spiritually slouched. Held together by duct tape, memes, and shared delusion.

Join us. Not for the gains. But for the release.

https://linktr.ee/depressedcouchfart

Tg: DepressedCouchFart