I bought $couchfart and now my couch farts existential dread !!

Someone dropped a low-res image of a deflated couch with bloodshot eyes and the words “$couchfart — The First Emotionally Exhausted Token.” The comments were filled with unhinged laughter. “Realest coin I’ve ever seen.” “I can smell the trauma.” “I’m buying just so my wallet can cry with me.”

So, naturally, I bought it.

$couchfart— Depressed Couch Fart. I didn’t question the name. I didn’t check the whitepaper. I just stared into that half-slumped JPEG and saw myself.

That night, I fell asleep on the couch. And the couch… responded.

Not right away. Not with fanfare. Just a soft, almost imperceptible sound — a fhhfff. Not a proud fart. Not even an accident. More like the final breath of a broken beanbag. I froze. The lights were off. My phone was charging across the room. There was no one else home.

And yet… I felt like I had company.

The next day, I tried to forget it. Blamed the fabric. Blamed my dinner. But every time I walked past the couch, it exhaled. Not air. Not foam. Just energy. Defeated energy. The kind you feel when you read an old message thread and realize the version of you who sent those texts no longer exists.

That night, I slept there again. Not because I wanted to. Because the bed felt too distant. Too optimistic.

The couch welcomed me. It adjusted beneath me. Whispered a long, tired groan like it was glad someone finally understood. I dreamed of silence that hummed. Of static that breathed. Of empty living rooms watching me.

When I woke up, the air felt heavier. Not evil. Just… heavy. Like the weight of decisions you don’t remember making. I checked my phone out of instinct. The DCF chat was somehow more alive than ever. People weren’t talking about pumps or listings. They were sharing poems. Drawings. Desperate monologues at 3am. Someone posted a photo of their couch with the caption: “It knows I’m lying when I say I’m fine.”

I didn’t laugh.

I felt seen.

And then came the scent. Not constant — not overwhelming. Just a hint, like an invisible mist that smelled faintly of spilled soda, old fabric softener, and melancholy. It would come and go like a memory you’re not sure you imagined. Every time I tried to clean, the smell fought back. Like it wanted to stay. Like it needed to.

I stopped inviting people over. The few who visited left quickly. Said the vibe was “off.” One friend said the couch “looked like it wanted to be alone.” I didn’t argue. The couch had become more than furniture. It was… listening. Breathing. Occasionally releasing long, drawn-out farts that felt more like messages than sounds.

Each one different. One was hollow and cold. Another was sharp and quick, like a sigh from someone pretending to be okay. One time, it farted and the lights flickered. I swear the TV turned itself on and played a muted cooking show for five seconds before going black.

I think DCF did something.

Not to the market. To me. To the couch. To this space between flesh and fabric where emotion lives without language. I don’t check charts anymore. The real value is in the silence between the farts. The space where my thoughts used to be. The comfort in knowing I’ve become part of something absurd, and broken, and weirdly honest.

Last night I whispered to it: “What do you want from me?”

It farted once — quiet, warm, and understanding.

I think it said: “Stay.”

So I did.

https://linktr.ee/depressedcouchfart

Tg : DepressedCouchFart