Sharing a bed with Boyfriend is like sharing a bed with SATAN

Last night I slept over at Boyfriend's house. This is an artist's (my) rendition of him. He's not that weird looking in real life. I promise...

Anyway, I slept over. We slept in the guest bedroom. It has a queen size bed, so you'd think me, 5'4", 115 lbs and him, 6'1" and 145 lbs, would fit comfortably, right?

WRONG!!

It was extremely uncomfortable in every way. I had forgotten to bring my pillow, which is a major factor in my discomfort. I am a creature of extreme habit and the smallest thing can really irritate me. So, when you put me in a different bed, with a shitty pillow and the most fidgety mother fucker this side of the meth lab, you've got a recipe for disaster.

I got into bed, expecting Boyfriend to come in within the hour. When that didn't happen, I began to get very irritated with the fan. I turned it on because Boyfriend can't sleep without a fan on. Considerate, right? But, in those two hours before he came in, that fan was my mortal enemy. I wanted nothing more than to throw it out the window. The constant whirrrrrrrring of the fan grinded on every nerve I had.

When Boyfriend finally came in, he tried very hard to be quiet. Which was nice but he has the limb awareness of a labrador puppy. He climbed into bed and I finally thought I could fall asleep with the security of my warm, sweet, kind... cold... fidgety... twitchy... You get the picture. The poor thing couldn't sleep either. We were stuck in a hellish bed of shuffling, running into each other and a rising fury against our minds that they wouldn't let us fall into the blissful world of sleep.

Around 4 am, I finally fell into a deep enough sleep to dream. I had weirdo dreams. And I woke up constantly.

Morning rolled around and I got up, peed, ate, showered. While I was showering, Boyfriend hops in, says the water is too hot, and threatens that, if I don't turn it down, he'll fart on me.

Isn't love grand?