tryst

I've been sleeping on the couch a lot lately. Actually, it's a loveseat, so when I recline into a state of full repose, my feet (note to self: time to cut toenails) stick way off the end. My neck folds up like a Toyota passenger seat against the other end, and somehow I remain comfortable. Not only that, but regardless of the fact that I am, in fact, the proud (or not so proud) owner of my very own bed, I've been consciously choosing to sleep on the lesser of two luxuries. Why? Well, it is my belief that I have a predisposition to nesting. I didn't acquire a bed until recently. For the last two years, I found some remarkable Zzzzs upon a 2 X 4ish ft. crib mattress wedged in the corner of my room, stacked to max with blankets like bologna on a club. I loved it. It was my curl-away. I suppose my mom still worries about my early scoliosis prognosis in the 7th grade because when I moved into this new place, my parents got me a bed. I believe it was the first birthday gift I ever recieved after saying the words "Please don't buy me a bed. I don't want, need, or have room for a bed." Needless to say, I didn't exactly jump for fucking joy when I got one, but it's okay, because I barely use the fucking thing anyway. As far as my back, well, as long as I don't notice my spine knifing out while I'm washing my butt in the shower, I think I'll be okay. I'm a nester. I nest. That's what I do. And I do it alone.

Something else. Heated blankets. Warm, cozy bedding, or electric deathtrap? I don't understand why they don't make candy cigarettes anymore, but they're content to string yards and yards of current-carrying wires through fleece and wool and have you wrap it around yourself and plug it into whatever unsteady socket you happen to have nearest to you. Let's try a scenario. It's winter. A Christmas Story is airing for the first time this season, so you grab your electric blanket and a cup of cocoa, curl up in your bed, and plug the sucker in. Your bastard cat jumps into your lap because it's pissed that you bought the store brand instead of Meow Mix, and you spill your cocoa. Bam. You and the blanket start shooting off sparks like it's the fucking fourth of July. Of course, since mattresses are proven to be highly flammable as well, you burn up faster than a doobie at a Phish show. And why? All because your stupid ass had to buy a blanket with wires laced through it so you could get that high that comes with the extra 2 degrees farenheit. That and your cheap ass bought generic cat food.

I don't trust electric blankets. I've never plugged one in and I never will. That is all.

My Music:
Rockbot
Multi

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