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 on the lawn. In the back of a pickup truck.
There’s no room for a hardworking bed monster anymore. Plus, the latex fumes are killing my sinuses.
You wouldn’t believe the restraint I have shown all these years when you stuck one foot out from under the covers. That white, puffy, gnarly-toed, tasty foot, just dangling there all night. Taunting me. I’m glad you never had a pedicure or took care of your feet in any way. I like my feet organic.
I can’t say I won’t miss you. I’ve gotten really used to the strangling wolverine noises that you make when you sleep. And since you never seem to have anyone spend the night, ever (you really should see a therapist about your intimacy issues), it’s been a pretty cushy job lurking under your bed every night, breaking up the monotony with the occasional mysterious noise that you were too cowardly to check out.
I know your mantra was, “If I can’t see the monster, it can’t see me,” but that’s just something mothers tell their stupid kids. I could see you perfectly fine. In the dark. Standing over your bed. Breathing.
My name is Gary, by the way. Not that you seem to care. You’re yawning? Really? No, don’t get up, I know the way out.
Have fun with Tyler the laundry room monster. He has a podcast and he’s vegan.