stupid ruffles...

I spent fifteen minutes this morning searching for my cell phone. It was hidden amongst the millions of ruffles in my hotel bed. Irony strikes hardest in these moments. My phone, my memories, my dreams are incased in these ruffles. They are insulated and kept safe for me to return to every night. Entombed in their grave I lay down every night and wrap myself very tightly in them. They are birthed, nurtured and laid down to rest here. These are the probably... not-so-quirky things that bother me. Quite gay to be honest. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.