I think I need a dog.

The problem is, I just can’t really afford one. In case you were unaware, journalists don’t exactly make bank, and I’m barely getting by as is. Not to mention I enjoy the freedom of being able to escape Danville whenever I feel like it. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

A few weeks ago as I was getting ready to go to bed, I heard a noise in my apartment. A light scratching, with some muffled rustling — definitely coming from somewhere inside. It’s pretty pathetic how easily terrified I am at strange noises when I’m alone at night. Perhaps it’s my fascination with ghosts and scary movies, but there is something thrilling about the idea of a scary noise. Maybe that’s why I let myself get so frightened, especially when I know the possibility of actual danger is minuscule.

Even so, I froze in my tracks. I began to tremble (more than normal… I have weirdly shaky hands) and kept quiet, waiting to hear the noise again. And there it was. I grabbed my phone and called my gal pal STB for some advice. What the hell do I do about this noise? There was definitely an animal of some type burrowing in my apartment — seemingly somewhere in the bathroom. She couldn’t really help much but advised me to leave some bait out (to verify whether there was actually a critter) and to shut my bedroom doors tight.

The next morning, I found no evidence of a rodent. That is, until I pulled out a hairbrush from my bathroom drawer and found very clear bite marks, with chunks of the foam handle strewn about the drawer. Gross. At least I knew I wasn’t crazy, though.

The creature — I was assuming a mouse although I had no visual proof — eventually lost interest in my drawer and I lost interest in him as well. Until a few days ago, when I heard him again in a closet. Determined to make contact, I crept into the hallway and hot damn! There he was. Until now I had been imagining some enormous oppossum/rat creature — some disgusting, horrific rodent sharing my apartment. But from what I could tell from the small space between the baseboard and the floor where he hid, my mouse was tiny. And adorable. I kind of wanted to keep him. Something about the idea of another soul, another creature living with me was sort of heartwarming.

Oh, how wrong I was.

Mom and Dad came to stay with me this weekend and Dad brought along a few mouse traps, although it made me a little sad. He set them in the closet were I’d spotted my friend (Ralph, I’d named him. Yes, like Ralph S. Mouse.) and barely an hour or two had gone by before we heard that horrible SNAP. I didn’t want to see him, but I’m a journalist. I need to see proof. Well, Ralph was no tiny mouse; Ralph was effing enormous. So big that the trap was too small and instead of snapping his neck, just painfully trapped him while he squeaked in pain. I was horrified.

Dad took care of it, but just after we’d retired for the evening, whaddya know? SNAP. Another one. This one was bigger, and I could hear him thrashing around in the hallway, the wooden mouse trap smacking the hardwood floor. Dad reluctantly got up and took care of this one, too.

“There’s more,” he said. “I’m sure of it.”

And so we’ve got another two traps set. Hopefully Dad’s still here to take care of those, too.

This is why I need a dog. Not just to scare away pesky rodents with his menacing scent, but because I clearly need a buddy. This is the second household pest I have befriended since moving here (remember Charlotte? yeah, she’s gone too). I actually desperately want a dog — but the thought of further tethering myself to Danville makes me cringe. I realize I can take a dog with me if and when I move somewhere new, but in the interim, having a dog means having more responsibilities.

So until I move somewhere where I’m ready to put down roots, my pests will have to do. Or I could just get out of the house a little more.

Hitting a wall

Well, as you’ve noticed I haven’t written in a few weeks. I’ve been attempting to run — not very hard, though — but I’ve hit a wall and am getting pretty darn discouraged. I need help!

When I’m doing well, I’m more likely to persevere and keep going. But because I don’t feel like I’m really progressing at all (probably because I’m just not trying very hard), my training has kind of diminished. I can usually run about two miles if I really push myself, but any more than that and I’m dying.

Does anyone else have this problem? If so, what do you do to push yourself through the wall?

Ready to run

I decided to start running again. Well, I started running again earlier this summer but with no real schedule or goal. But a few weeks ago I decided to start seriously training for an 8k in Richmond (of course) in November because I tend to perform better with a deadline. Go figure.

It’s obvious when trying on my clothes every morning that I haven’t exactly kept up my winter/spring workout routine. Jeans that had once gotten loose and baggy now fit again. I hate it, but the only thing I can do is get back on the treadmill. Or hit the road, now that the temperature has finally dropped a few degrees.

I started last week and ran the first day’s two-mile assignment without dying. Awesome. Day 3 was only one mile, which I ran above and beyond with fellow reporter SB because we’d underestimated the distance from my house to a shop up the street. Unfortunately, however, I missed Day 4’s two-mile run because of a long work day but got back on track yesterday for Day 6, another two miles.

Total for this week: 5.6 miles. You gotta start somewhere, right?

Schedule for this week: Monday, two miles. Wednesday, one mile. Thursday, two miles. Saturday, three miles. Total: 8 miles.

Fingers crossed I can keep this up. I tend to get really excited and gung-ho about things like this at the beginning, then find reasons to quit halfway through. I’m hoping that by blogging about it, I’ll have a reason to hold myself accountable. That also means if I have a bad week and slack off, I’m going to need your support to keep me going. Deal?

If you do that for me, I’ll do it for you. So let me know what goals you’re trying to accomplish and I’ll be your cheerleader. Go team!

I think God was punishing me

I slept in this morning and skipped church, wanting to take advantage of a nice day to myself.

The mirror in my bathroom has four round dressing room-type light bulbs above it that get ridiculously hot if left on for more than 10 minutes or so. Like, so hot that they heat up my tiny bathroom to a hellish temperature when trying to dry my hair in the mornings before work and I manage to sweat off all the makeup I’ve just applied.

Today when I got out of the shower, I turned around with my back to the mirror and started flipping my hair to shake out the excess water. The next thing I knew, my bathroom – and my body – were covered in shards of glass. With the sound of a cap gun shot, the light bulb had burst behind me, spraying molten-hot broken pieces in every direction.

Standing there in shock, not wanting to move for fear of further impaling myself with bits of glass, the only thing I could figure was that one of those droplets of water I flung from my hair must have hit one of the bulbs, causing it to shatter.

“WHAT THE?!” I shouted at my bathroom, looking around at the light bulb’s path of destruction. Then I felt a stinging in my ankle. I looked down to see a huge chunk of glass stuck to my foot.

“OWWW!” I screamed, thinking the piece was stuck in my skin. I started at it, unsure if I should just pull it out or not when I realized I wasn’t bleeding. But damn, it stung like hell. I reached down and realized that rather than slicing me, the glass was just so effing hot that it was burning me and has since left a blister. Lovely.

After I picked the piece off my ankle, I gingerly swept my hands down my back and legs in search of more. I found a few, but miraculously none was stuck in me. Somehow I managed to escape getting cut during all this.

Maybe I should’ve just gone to church. Made me think of Regina Spektor… “God can be so hilaaarious”

An escape nonetheless

Vacation. The word typically evokes images of pristine beaches in exotic locales, but how many of us actually get to vacation to those places? For me, a perfect summer getaway is simply a week at the beach, whether it’s the ever-popular Outer Banks or small-but-charming Kure Beach near Wilmington.

This year, however, my family decided to change it up and spend a week in Valle Crucis, N.C., a small mountain community near Blowing Rock, Grandfather Mountain and Boone, home of Appalachian State University. When my parents first told me, I was more than a little disappointed to miss out on a week in the sun. But you can’t really complain too much when your parents are still treating you to a week’s vacation.

After a hellish week at work – the week before you leave is always the worst, trying to get everything done – I hit the road last Thursday and met my parents, my brother and my sister-in-law at a cozy little log cabin on the banks of the Watauga River. After a few days of rain, we started to feel a little confined, but we did what we could, including hiking up part of Grandfather Mountain to the mile-high swinging bridge during a break in the rain.

the mile-high bridge

I couldn’t help but feel a little like a fifth wheel in my own family, though, when we reached the top and everyone paired off for pictures, leaving me as the trusty photographer. Mom and Dad, my brother and his wife – all proud of completing the hike and wanting to share it with their spouse, while I, the single sister, documented it. Usually, I’m not bothered by stuff like this. But sometimes, it’s just impossible not to notice. “Want us to get a picture of you?” Sure, why wouldn’t I want a picture of myself, alone, at the top of a mountain? Whatever. I was proud, too, and I get along just fine on my own. Most of the time, anyway.

Sometimes I do let my bitter side come out for a bit. But I’m very quick to push it aside, because it’s completely useless to be bitter. About anything.

After a contemplative break atop Grandfather Mountain, and re-crossing the seemingly unstable bridge (which brought about more than one image of Indiana Jones strapping himself into that rope bridge in “The Temple of Doom”) we headed back down the mountain. Stepping back in time and into an old-timey general store for lunch, we celebrated rural North Carolina with bluegrass and barbecue. But, this wasn’t your grandpa’s bluegrass – the three young guys laughed as they picked and plucked a countrified version of ABBA’s “Dancing Queen” for a crowd.

Later that day we visited Linville Caverns, which are not as impressive as Luray, but impressive nonetheless. I had the urge to scream, “HEY YOU GUYYYYSSSSS!” while looking into a so-called bottomless pool, feeling a bit like the kids in “The Goonies” when they discover the pirate ship. What can I say? I’m a child of the ‘80s.

By Sunday, my brother and his wife had to head back home, leaving my parents and me to entertain ourselves until Thursday. We didn’t have a problem with that, though. We hiked one day to Linville Falls, and spent another day flying through the air at 50 mph on ziplines.

before the first zip

Mom was terrified, of course, but I was thoroughly impressed that she went through with it. With a stunning backdrop of healthy, green farmland and rolling hills at the base of the Blue Ridge, we zig-zagged down a series of four separate lines before starting back at the beginning for the super-zip. The super-zip was probably twice as long as any of the others, and ran three parallel lines so three people could go at once. I would’ve gone with my parents, but I went instead with a 13-year-old girl we befriended because her parents were too chicken to go at all. That last ride was by far the best, although I’m not sure you could tell a difference between the 13-year-old’s squeals and my own.

Our last full day I have opted to chill at the cabin and take advantage of some porch swing time to write while my parents explore another town. The lack of an Internet connection was refreshing, as I have lately found myself unnecessarily bound to the www. (I still brought my MacBook, though; you don’t need the Internet to write.) But after checking my e-mail at the local library, I found myself irritated at what I was missing out on back in Danville, news-wise. I may have missed a few good stories, but that’s the beauty of the news: there’s always more tomorrow.

The swing at the house had an irksome squeak, but over the week I grew accustomed to its rhythmic chatter. Sometimes you have to force yourself to slow down on vacations, and sometimes you simply fall right into the relaxed pace. Although, not everyone in the mountains is relaxed, like the almost-vicious territorial hummingbird that kept watch over his feeders, fighting off two other hungry hummingbirds. It was a daily drama we enjoyed watching from the squawking porch swing.

A week in the mountains may not be my ideal vacation – I still need some beach time before the season is over – but it refreshed me all the same. A vacation, whether it’s spent on the sand or soaking in the river in a black Goodyear inner tube, beer in hand, is an escape either way. An escape from my hairdryer, from my makeup, from stress and work and drama. And a much-needed chance to hang out with my family.

My escape ended abruptly when I headed to Richmond, though. But my college roommate’s wedding — three days of parties and celebrations — was absolutely fabulous. I can only hope mine will be just as perfect – from the marriage itself to the entire weekend.

“I am wonderful”

This should be the theme song to this blog. I am seriously obsessed. I saw this first on VH1 this week, then miraculously it was the free iTunes pick of the week. You know I downloaded that immediately! I couldn’t embed the video here, but check out the link below. Enjoy.

Gary Go: “Wonderful”

Rebuilding my web

Having a birthday in July is great; it’s like celebrating a second New Year’s Day halfway through the year. It gives me a chance to evaluate where I am and where I’m going.

My 23rd year was not my best. Worse things could have happened, yes, but for me, it was rough. So, understandably, I am thrilled to move on to 24. I don’t know why, but I’ve got a good feeling about this year. I don’t think I’ll solve all (if any) of my issues, but something tells me this year is going to take me places – good places. I look back at the distance I’ve traveled from my last birthday, and I only now fully realize that you can never possibly plan or predict what could happen in a year’s time. All you can do is push yourself forward.

THIS is Charlotte. Photo by HKM

I have a new friend in Danville. Sort of. Her name is Charlotte and she lives outside my apartment, in a web in my back doorway that she rebuilds pretty much every day. At first she creeped me out. Now, her diligence and consistency never cease to amaze me when I duck below the nearly invisible strands of her sturdy web as I leave for work every morning. I realize the relationship I have created (in my head) with a spider is not normal. But I only hope that I can be as committed to something someday as Charlotte is to building that dang web every day. Minus the feasting on bugs part.

I think 24 is a good age. I haven’t hit my quarter-century mark yet, but I’ve also graduated from the “just out of college” phase and established myself as an independent (for the most part) professional. My friends in their late 20s and early 30s are probably rolling their eyes at that – I know, I know. I’m still young. And I’m thankful for that. Last week I was on vacation with my family and made more than a few comments about my current life status, which in my mind is quite up in the air. Meaning, I have absolutely no idea where the hell my life is going. And my mom was very quick to remind me that I need not worry about silly things like that.

“Your life is right on track,” she said. “You are doing exactly what is right for you. People envy where you are right now.” And although it’s easy to forget, she’s right.

A few weeks ago, two friends and I packed up a minivan and headed to Eden, N.C. for a viewing of the new Harry Potter movie at a drive-in. Somehow, I had never been to drive-in theater, ever. We parked and set up camp on the cool grass with blankets, leaning against the rear bumper of the minivan. As the evening light faded and the stars appeared, Harry Potter and his cohorts embarked on their adventures. The movie was fun enough, but it was the drive-in experience that I enjoyed the most. My girlfriends and I snuggled together to stay warm (in July… crazy), snacking on popcorn and fresh cherries, as the temperature dropped a good 15 or so degrees.

There is simply something magical about being outdoors on cool summer nights. The rhythm of the crickets faded into the background of the movie’s score as the smoky scent of grilled burgers wafted across the lawn. Something about the three of us — giggling about how unfortunate it is that the actor playing Draco has not grown more attractive as he ages — sitting on the grass out in rural North Carolina made me feel like a kid again. It was like I was away at summer camp, bonding with two great friends who I really haven’t known very long but can already tell they’ll stick with me for a while.

It’s so easy to look waaaay too far into the future – believe me, I’m guilty of it on a daily basis – and freak yourself out about what you should be doing, what path you should be on, whether you’re on the right one and where it might take you. Frankly, it’s exhausting. Even my daily Google alerts stress me out, making me realizing there is so much more I could be covering at work, if only I had more time.

But we don’t have more time. We have what we have. And at work, it’s 40 hours a week, that’s it. (At least for my job it is; we’re under a no-overtime policy…) The key is to focus on what’s important and not get bogged down with the mundane. I can’t keep stressing out about “shoulda, coulda, woulda.” You simply can’t play that game. You have what you’ve been given and you’ve to go make the most of it. If you don’t like it, fix it.

Since my last post about feeling suffocated in Danville, I’ve made a few changes in my life, determined to regain control. I remember telling The Musician last month that I’d been pretty homesick. Not really homesick for North Carolina, but for good friends. There’s always a period of time when you’re in a new place that you wish for the friends you left behind. I can safely say I don’t feel that way anymore.

"c" items: card, clutch, cigarette (not mine), cell phone, catalog, corona, cold drink

If the beginning of my 24th year is any indication of its remainder, I’m in for a treat. My Danville friends threw me a spectacular C-themed bash (costumes required), which positively overwhelmed me seeing as how I’ve only known them for about three months. Three months that have honestly flown by because I try my best to make the most of the current chapter of my life, whether it’s spent watching movies with the girls, working on stressful stories at work or befriending the bugs in my apartment.

Face it: it’s easy to get worn out, burned out, beaten down from the day-to-day. But keep an eye on that bigger picture. Not for planning purposes, of course – that’s impossible – but for your on sanity and happiness. If something tears down your web, just rebuild it. And know that despite whatever crap you may encounter today, this week, this month, your life is headed in a certain direction.

It’s just up to you which direction that is.

Living up to my own philosophies

“Did you ever think that maybe if you’re not happy it’s because of you?”

-Stephen Kellogg

I’ve been in Danville for a little more than two months. And when people ask me how it’s going, I find myself taking a deep breath and exhaling a wistful, “oh, it’s fiiine.” I really can’t complain. It is fine. I’m not unhappy. But I’m not particularly ecstatic, either.

I guess it’s hard to compare my current situation with my last, which was simply exquisite if only because of the pure novelty of that place. It was my first home, outside of my parents’ and college. It was a place and experience that was new and refreshing, and it was all mine. I made it for myself. So it’s hard for me to fall completely in love with Danville the way I did with Culpeper, because I’ve already done it. It’s sort of like I’m “just not that into” Danville.

photo by Declan McCullagh

For the Fourth of July, I visited my best friend (CB the law student) in New York, where she’s spending the summer. Walking through the hipster-chic streets in the Village and Chelsea, through the quiet beauty in Central Park, through the insane crowds in Midtown, I longed to live in a city. A real city. I did that once, in Spain. I spent four months in Valencia and I did things while living abroad that would terrify me in the United States. Things like traveling completely alone, like relying on an unfamiliar public transit system, like really living without restraints. The smells of New York City streets — that slightly sour, almost dirty smell — made me miss Valencia and my semester there as if it were a best friend I’d lost touch with.

I think that’s what appeals to me so much about Richmond, a city so rich with history and architecture. When I’m downtown, or walking through the Fan — I feel almost like I’m back in Europe, where I felt such exuberance and independence from my own intimidation. New York reminded me of that, and seeing CB navigate her way flawlessly through the metropolitan maze reminded me that I was once so able.

To be blunt, Danville suffocates me a little. To explore, I have to drive aimlessly. Downtown is definitley within walking distance, but most of it is vacant and empty. Driving around the city bores me, and I find myself falling into an inconvenient rut. I get to work late enough that I could accomplish things in the morning if I woke up earlier, but I don’t. I work late enough that I can’t really accomplish anything after work because I’m exausted. I go out of town nearly every weekend and simply don’t make time for myself. Even this blog is getting painfully neglected.

And because of my self-inflicted schedule, I’ve let my once-dutiful workout regimen fall by the wayside. For a while I relied on the “my life fell apart” excuse, but it’s been four months and I’ve outworn it. My life is now back together. For the most part.

I really hate to sound like such a Debbie Downer, because it’s so out of character for me. But I guess we all have our moments, right? Wrong. Maybe that’s an OK excuse for you, but not for me. It seems I’m forgetting one of the pillars of my life philosophy: whatever you’ve got, make the most of it. Like Stephen Kellogg croons, “Did you ever think that maybe if you’re not happy it’s because of you?” In short, quit whining and make some changes. Or at least be thankful for what you’ve got.

Sometimes I cringe at the thought of making the effort to exercise, but the truth is, I miss running. I really do. I miss that exhilarating feeling of accomplishment when I surpassed one, two, three miles. Or when I dropped 5, 10, 15 pounds. That’s a high you can’t find anywhere else. I go on almost-daily walks with my friends, but I need to make time to run again.

And speaking of friends, I have made some seriously awesome ones in Danville who I miss when I’m gone on the weekends. And thankfully, they miss me too. They even told me so. When I mentioned last night that my birthday was next week, I got a resounding, “we know,” from my two girlfriends. I forget how lucky I am that I make friends so quickly.

This is your one chance at life. All you can do is make the most of it. Don’t spend your days wishing you were somewhere — or someone — else. And if you’re not happy, ask yourself why.

The times they are a-changin’

I know that phrase is probably really overused. Sorry, Bob Dylan. But it’s just so darned true. In this case, I am referring to the fact that as of January 2010, my generation within my family will never be the same.

I am so elated to say that my sister-in-law is preggers and I will officially be an aunt come January. I am so excited I can’t even stand it.

But when I found out last month, I also had a realization: we have officially entered adulthood. Well, they have, at least. Never mind graduating college, or living on your own or getting married. But now? Damn. Now there’s going to be a new generation of my family and we are no longer the kids.

As we horsed around in the sound at Kill Devil Hills, laughing at each other and acting like a bunch of goofy kids, I almost got a little sad. Never again will we be this group of carefree siblings and in-laws, with little more than money or work to worry us. My brother will soon be a dad, and one day I’ll be telling my little niece or nephew about the happy-go-lucky times we used to have.

Don’t misunderstand me – I don’t mean to say that all fun will end when the baby is born. Quite the opposite, I’m sure. I simply mean that things will change, priorities will change. A while ago I came across some pictures of my aunt and uncle before they got married and I was still a toddler. And it’s so strange to think of them as carefree twenty-somethings, before the rest of their lives began. It’s strange because that’s where I am now, and I have no idea where the heck my life is going. And they probably didn’t either. It’s hard to put your aunts’, uncles’ or parents’ lives into perspective until you get to that point yourself.

I’m about to turn 24. When my mom was 24, she’d been married two years and had just given birth to my brother. That scares the shit out of me, to put it bluntly. Needless to say I am positively thrilled for my brother and his wife, but the truth is I am so grateful to be single and unattached. That may be the first time I’ve said that and actually meant it.

Because even though everyone always says it – “enjoy this time in your life because you’ll never have it again” – I always rolled my eyes. That was just their pity at my singleness. But they’re right.

With freedom may come loneliness, but with companionship comes restrictions. I am unattached, and this probably is the only time in my life I will be that free. I had this same realization a few months ago when I got laid off, but now I realize it even more. The problem is figuring out what to do with all this freedom and learning to really appreciate it while I have it.

For starters, I’m going to keep thinking of fun aunt names. Because who doesn’t adore their awesome Aunt ____?

I’m a big kid now

I am almost 24 years old. And for about 22 of those years (well, basically since I left the crib), I have slept in a twin bed. And not just any twin bed — a pretty kickass four-poster twin bed with a damn fine mattress. For being a kid-sized bed, it’s super comfy and has been good to me, which is why I brought it with me when I moved out of my parents’ house after college. My dad said, “You can have your bed for free, or you can buy yourself a bed.” Not exactly a brainteaser.

OK mine isn't this bad, but it's close.

Most of my friends have had full or queen size beds since they outgrew their twins, but not me. I’ve stayed loyal to that sucker for 22 long years. (Not like I had much choice in the matter.) The tiny beds in college didn’t even bother me; I was used to sleeping in a bed for one. Although, the plastic mattresses were crappy and I always looked forward to visiting home and sinking into the heavenly comfort of my own bed. I loved that bed.

However, once I moved out of my parents’ house and into an apartment of my own, I realized just how ridiculous it was that I still slept in a twin bed. Giving people tours of my apartment always led to me explaining my sleeping situation. “You see, I brought this from my parents’ house and I’m saving up to buy a new bed. When I do, this will go in the guestroom.” The guestroom where my guests slept on an air mattress on the floor. Real classy, I know.

But I never bought one, never upgraded to a “big girl bed.” The one time I actually had some money saved, I bought a new laptop when my old one died. “Sorry bed, you’ll have to wait,” I said. Then right after Christmas, I came really close. I even went shopping with the guy I was dating at the time, which made dad real happy. “This only means one thing,” he told my mom after I’d called for mattress-buying advice.

But the thing is, it wasn’t about that. At all. It was about being an actual adult, and making grownup purchases for my grownup life. The four-poster twin may be comfy, but it kept me feeling like a kid. Feeling like I didn’t even fit into my own adult life. Like for some reason I didn’t deserve the life I’d made for myself. I know that’s reading a lot into my bed size, but your home says a lot about who you are and how you live your life. I still didn’t end up buying a mattress, though. I soon found out that I would be getting a slight pay cut at work, making a new bed completely out of the question. Then I got laid off, and well, you know the rest.

I’ve now moved to a new place and into a new apartment, and I was determined. My credit card isn’t happy with me, but I finally bought the big girl bed of my dreams, with a gorgeous new comforter and 400 thread count sheets to boot. I knew that if I didn’t just go for it, I never would. For those of you who can’t remember the last time you slept in a twin bed – and simply cannot appreciate the luxury of your current sleeping arrangement because you take it for granted – let me tell you how I feel. Have you ever gone to a really fancy hotel and just collapsed onto the giant bed of cushy pillows and bliss? And you spread your body across the entire bed just because you can? And giggle? (OK maybe that last one is just me.) THAT is how I feel. Every. Night.

my new bedding

It’s like I’ve finally graduated from the kiddie table and can sit with the grownups at Thanksgiving. I know it sounds dumb, but it’s almost empowering. I sit on my big girl bed and think: “This is mine. I bought it. I made this happen for myself.” With a little help from my parents in actually getting it here from Charlotte, of course. I’ve wanted a big girl bed for probably 15 years, and I finally have one. All. To. Myself. It’s glorious.

But I won’t lie… every time I walk through my (now) guestroom, I feel a little guilty. It’s like I’ve hurt the four-poster’s feelings. I’ve abandoned it. It looks so lonely in there, without me. And then I walk into my incredibly gigantic bedroom, with an incredibly gigantic bed, and I forget all about that pathetic twin.