Bedsheets are like panties. Kind of, eh? I'm in the process of getting a new bed- everything is a process these days- and for it I got new sheets. They have a decent thread count and were decently priced. If bedsheets are like underwear, and I'll maintain that I sort of think that they are, then though they are not usually seen by others they can create an outward feeling. I'm sure if I sat on my bed writing this entry with silk satin sheets underneath I would feel damn fine, or something along those lines. But sex is not beneath the surface of my lady-like quilt. My sheets look like caffeinated limes on acid. They are highlighters, saying perhaps, "Look here now, this bed is important, focus." This seems contradictory to the function of a bed, and to my hopes to sleep somewhere less juvenile. Twenty and womanly on the outside, a twelve-year-old boy on the inside.
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