While being a teenager -around the age of 13- I began hating my bed even more. I would simply lie on that thing, hoping to fall asleep, worrying like crazy and panicing because I had 5 houurs of sleep left. "Yes, another zombie day tomorrow". My bed was the place where there was no one to distract me. The place where my thoughts went all crazy. Most of the times I was feeling sad and I worried a lot. Oh, sweet teenage struggles. I would think that I'd never get a boyfriend, I would convince myself to never eat fries or chocolate again. I would even, and yes "forever alone" danger here, put my pillows against the wall to have the feeling that there was someone lying behind me too cuddle with me. Someone special. I don't even remember who I imagined it to be, because you know, teenagers love every single "opposite -or same- sex creature" they meet. Well, at least I loved everyone that paid attention to me and was nice to me. Retarted? Probably.
As you can see, my bed and I have never been friends. I would jump on it, I would somersault on it, I would stuff my bed with every single toy I could find. I would read in it and eat on it, getting it all dirty with crumbs and stains. I would probably do everything in/on stead of sleeping in it. On it? Well, you get the message.
But, then, a few days ago, in my adult life -ahum-, I realised that my enemy has turned into my friend. Not only do I have someone to cuddle with -although this is not every single night-, but I can sleep. I can manage to fall asleep within 30 minutes. This, lovely monkeys, is a huge deal to me! Of course I have my worry-moments. Of course I have my Bratz-jungle-moments. No kidding, I don't have those anymore. But, you know, over all, I love my bed. It's soft, it's warm, and I now consider my bed as my own little shelter. My little private hideaway.
Bed, marry me.