Most of the time

I like being single. I enjoy doing things alone -- eating out, going to the movies, watching sports. I even like sleeping alone. You get the whole bed to yourself and no one steals the covers and no one puts their cold-ass feet against you and no one sleeps on your arm, leaving you without feeling in your limbs for hours. It's nice. Most of the time.

I got sick last night -- it came on pretty suddenly, while I was watching the season finale of ER. Do I blame ER and that shot of the woman being squished by a car? Kinda. The point is, whilst shivering and alone in my bed, I suddenly, desperately, wanted someone to share my misery. I wanted sympathy and a back rub and someone's body heat to steal.

I wanted comfort. Like when I used to fake a stomachache so I could sleep in my parents' room. (Don't tell my mom.) My dad would make me a blanket burrito on the floor, and my mom would let me sleep with her giant stuffed unicorn. (My mom's got a thing for unicorns, okay? Whimsy runs in the family.) I can't tell you how my dad made the blanket burrito, but it was the Best Thing Ever when I was 5 years old. Somehow I suspect it's still the Best Thing Ever. Even at 28.