My Love,

When I put you in my Bed, Bath, and Beyond shopping cart and tweaked my back, I knew you were the one. You were bigger and heavier than I expected, but I knew that would only add to our intense relationship. When the cashier scanned that complimentary 20% off coupon she had at her register, without me asking, I knew that something so rarely offered must be fate.

We’ve been together for three years now, and I love that I’ve never washed you since taking you out of your plastic and cardboard packaging. The mysterious blood, sweat, and “other” stains create the beautiful, messy, patchwork tapestry of our complicated history. I can’t believe how long I waited to purchase you. As you know, I have suffered from insomnia since birth.

I tried everything, from prescribed sleeping meds, paying $30 for an “Ocean Sounds” CD from Cracker Barrel, to gulping down a warm cup of 2% every night (even though I’m lactose intolerant and threw up immediately). Once I came upon you, I didn’t know I was lost until you were found. I also realized how all of the meditation breathing, “relax” essential oil rollers, and excessive bong rips were preparing me for our future together.

The moments you awaken me in a slight (erotic) panic when you bunch up around my neck and crush my windpipe are some of the greatest memories of my adult life. While laying underneath you, in my most intimate times, I am thrilled when you crush me into a sexy pancake like the naughty poodle I am. When I’m under you, I feel like a corpse squished under the weight of six feet of dirt, and that’s when I feel the most beautiful. The four slipped discs from trying to roll over under your weight are worth it, just knowing that once I find the perfect position, I’ll be deep in my REM cycle for five to twelve hours.

I’m not a blanket virgin either, and once you found out I had a sorted affair with a royal purple, chunky-knit Threshold by Target throw, I thought I lost you forever. I wasn’t in a good place when I met him. I was cold, broke, and high out of my mind, and he was on sale and oh so soft. I got distracted by his defined folds and creases while on display. It was the white ribbon packaging, the soft touch, and the Avril Lavigne song in the background at Target that truly undid me and made me take him home.

I am still angry at myself for wasting time on duvets who claimed they were filled with down, but instead were filled with “down-like” synthetic materials. Fuck you, you fake ass, synthetic, bad for the environment DUVET. To the microfleece blanket, micro applies to more than one thing. Your ass gaslit me and added to my anxiety by claiming you’d “fix” me, and I wouldn't need another blanket ever again. Tell that to my washer and dryer who are now clogged with forest green, microfleece lint. The spin cycle has been fucked up ever since.

You don’t match the rest of my bedding at all, but it doesn’t matter. You’re there for me through the thick and thin, from reducing my anxiety to being a makeshift kettlebell. I mourn the day I will have to eventually replace you with a younger model, but nothing lasts forever.

P.S. In regards to your request for a menage a trois with melatonin gummies, I’m willing to try anything with you.

Yours always (or until the little glass beads inside of you start falling out and I throw you away),

Me

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