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A Few Words From The Monster Under Your Bed
Hi, we haven’t — please stop screaming — we haven’t actually met, but I’m the monster that lives under your bed. Hi. Oh, sorry, I already said that. Your high-pitched squeals and the five minutes it took for me to revive you really made me nervous. Yes, I threw water on you and that’s why you’re all wet. It worked, didn’t it?
Remember when you were growing up in an old farmhouse, and you thought I lived in that closet in your bedroom that had a curtain instead of a real door? And sometimes the curtain would move ever so slightly, as if something stood behind it, very close. Breathing.
Guess what, you were right!
Wow, you turned out pretty normal. I had my doubts for a while. I assume you’re a famous singer now, after all that practice in front of the mirror. No? Well, who am I to judge? I’m just the monster that’s been living under your bed for the last 30 years.
Anyway, I’m retiring. No, no, don’t go to the bother of throwing me a party. Unless you really want to? No? Okay. Fine. Whatever.
Anyway, I’m retiring — really, being pushed out by this fad for mattresses in a box. Who invented this monstrosity? Beds that come in the mail, and then they explode from the box like a can of crescent rolls, and you throw them down on any old thing. The floor. A piece of wood. Out…
