Why I whole-heartedly love my bed…

Literally from the second I grudgingly get out of bed in the morning (or quite often, the afternoon), all I want to do is get back in it. Sometimes if I do get into bed and it’s only the early afternoon, I’ll literally get giddy with excitement and just sit there wriggling around in pure ecstasy.

It’s probably not a good thing, to be honest. I’m only twenty-two. People my age should be out drinking and screwing around and doing whatever, but me? No way. I had that phase when I was seventeen / eighteen, and I got tired of it pretty quickly. Nowadays, nothing beats climbing into bed. My girlfriend sometimes worries that we’re prematurely getting old. She thinks that we should be out doing what people our age do, and every once in a while, maybe we’ll try it; but honestly… Nothing beats bed. Getting in, even if it’s cold, and then you can just curl up into a ball, or whatever; it’s just perfect. Highlight of my day.

And if that’s not cool, or if people think that’s sad or boring or whatever, then seriously… You guys obviously haven’t tried climbing in to my bed; because as far as I’m concenrned, my bed beats your loud music, expensive drinks, sweaty crowds, awkward taxi arrangements and drunk ass holes any day of the week. Plus, you don’t even get a hang over.

So anyway, before I start getting tearful and choked up, I’d like to say; on behalf of reclusive, slothful, agoraphobic shut-ins everywhere… Thank you, beds.