Paradise Lost

Comfort, it's a wonderful thing. Small, little pleasures that pop in and out of one's existence and make things a bit more tolerable. We all have them, and most stockpile them whenever possible.

There is great diversity in the world of comfort. Some favor long walks through quiet parks, fresh air, and sunny days. Admittedly, I don't know many of this type of person, but I know you freaks are out there. My stable of running mates usually tend to favor things like stiff drink, old movies, and loud screaming. It's not for everyone I suppose, but it does help the weary get by.

As colleagues in comfort, I think we can all sympathize in that feeling of frustrated depression when said comfort is stripped from us. And inevitably, it always gets stripped away. Whether by time, responsibility, or the bottom of the bottle, one cannot stay comfortable forever. And it's never easy to bid those cozy moments adieu with any degree of grace or civility. Losing our places of serenity gives way to reactions similar to stealing a security blanket from a toddler. Composure is lost, and the frustration returns.

This reality became particularly clear to me the other day, with one of my minor comforts: clean sheets.

This may seem surprising to you, my loyal reader. Surely the Boogie Man's comforts are more along the lines of barrels of mead and animal sacrifices. Whilst those things definitely have their place, there still is no sense of peace greater than climbing out of a shower, and into clean bedware. Fresh sheets, decent smelling blankets, it's a paradise. A cotton and softener-laced garden of eden. A place where the body can rest, and the mind can let go of all those nagging preoccupations.

Comfort was in my hands, when it was all stripped away from me. And not by some hostile force, or adversaries looking to disrupt my utopia, but by nature itself. For you see, when one is in a comfortable place, and has achieved a state of relaxation.......oftentimes certain gases tend to emanate out of certain orifices.

You guessed it, Boogie cut the cheese in his clean sheets. And paradise was forever ruined.

For no amount of mental bargaining can help you escape the fact that the things your body didn't want are now floating in the cotton boundaries you've created for yourself. At this very moment, an unseen enemy is infiltrating itself in the 200 thread count sheets I've secured myself in. There they will hide, slowly rotting my flesh and breaking my peace of mind.

And I am powerless against it. The lights are off, and my need for sleep has overtaken me. No sense in changing the bedding now, I'm already situated. I'm here for the duration. So sleep I must, surrounded by my own fumes, white flag in hand.

In the light of day, it seems like such a silly thing. There's no sense in getting riled up over this nonsense. Flatulence is a natural thing. And I'm around myself enough to know that most of what I put into my body is pretty decent stuff. But, in the end it isn't about that. It's about the little personal meditations we make for ourselves. The things we look forward to, just so we can get up the next day and face the world. We clutch on to them with a death grip, hoping they never have to leave, but knowing that eventually they will.

So, relish your comforts people. Embrace them where and when you can. Relish them while you have them, for they all bid farewell far too quickly. As for me, I have blankets to wash.