Thursday, 22 February 2007


The trouble with my bed is the size. Yeah, I know, most girls in magazines will tell you size doesn’t matter, but they’re wrong. Mine is big. Way too big. I mean football field kinda large. Maybe I should be happy for having such a large one. I know a guy whose been managing this really little one for a while. He complains every day in class. He’s too ashamed to bring girls over to his room. I mean, it’s really embarrassing. They get there and wham! - it’s this little limp piece of ___. Anyway back to mine. Every morning I wake up and guess what I see? All huge and ready in all it’s glory. I’ve long ago given up the idea of pounding it to a smaller size. Or even my hare brained scheme of getting it smaller through over use. I did that for three semesters but it still looks none the worse for it. I know I shouldn’t complain but let me explain to you the exact nature of my grouse. The thing with having one as big as mine is that there’s so much to do with it that you never get around to doing it. Let me use a not-so hypothetical situation. You have a girl in your room (yeah, I know, girls again. The world began with girls and guys) so you have a girl in your room and she, of course sees it. With an excited whoop she launches on it, bouncing around and all, trying all the while, to keep you somehow detached from the entire proceedings. That is theoretically and bodily impossible. So you join in the fray. Then comes the problem with size. I mean, it’s simply so large that there’s plenty of space for meandering. Even you, the owner, haven’t gotten complete mastery of the equipment. By the time all the running around has been done, lots of energy has been expended with no result. You collapse in a weary heap. She does too. And there’s strength left only for the perfunctory kiss, which you do between taking large gasps of breath. Invariably, you fall asleep and she lets herself out. You wake up late into the night. You’re too tired of sleeping to sleep again, and it’s too late to go anywhere. You go over the room sniffing places she touched, held, thinking of how unfair it all is...
I probably do complain too much. Life, after all, is not a bed of roses.