As I’m writing this, I’m sitting in my bed. I was up way, way too late, and the thought of having to get up, almost pains me. If I could, I’d stay here until tomorrow morning, when I have to get up for work.
There is little in this world I love more than climbing into my bed, stretching out on the cold, smooth sheets and then curling up. If I ever get ridiculously loaded, I’ll hire someone only to change my sheets every single day. Fresh sheets is a God’s gift.
… Where, on the other hand, taking the sheets -off- throughout the day in a weekend, forgetting to put new on immeadiately ’cause I’m busy doing some other housewifing of some sort, and then at night, late, wanting to go to bed, realising… I still have to put sheets on… Is horror.
Yes, my bed is my religion. It never fails me. It’s my friend when I’m happy, calm and serene, and I fall asleep with a smile on my lips. It’s my trusted safe haven, to shut out the world, when I’m hurting, blue or still blushing from a night out, where I was a liiiiittle too cheeky for my own good.
Random post of the week, I know. But it’s Sunday. The working week is about to start. And I -really- don’t want to get outta bed… *whimpers*