A few years ago, I lived in South Carolina with my grandparents. They would go to Florida for the winter and it would be just me and my dog, holding down the fort until their return.
I slept in an old wooden-framed antique twin bed, one of a set. Then I got myself a boyfriend. One day, um... the bed broke. After that, I slept in the other old wooden-framed twin bed. When my grandparents returned, my grandad had to repair the bed we busted.
You want to know the word that best describes the chagrin I felt, knowing my grandparents knew why the bed had been broken?
Em-bar-ass-ment.
Flash forwad to the present. I had married the boyfriend, and now I have divorced the husband. I find myself sleeping in the old wooden-framed twin bed again. The same one we broke. The other bed, the one that had been part of the set, broke a few months ago when my mother and I both sat down on it at the same time.
KERTHUNK.
Broke one bed with energetic romping. Broke the other because my ass is too big.
Last night, I got into bed. The original bed that I slept in so many years ago. The one my grandad repaired.
KERTHUNK.
Godammit, not again!
So YES. I have broken the same bed TWICE, the other bed ONCE, and may I state that I am sick and tired of old wooden-framed antique twin beds! I feel like fricken Goldilocks here!
You might think I'm rocking your world, but I'm really just breaking the bed.
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You give good bed.
- parrishsky
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