Today I had my first ever mini mental breakdown in the storage aisle of an Office Max. Maybe that sentence is misleading: I have had numerous panic attacks in my life, but none were set in a fluorescent lighting high ceiling wrapped up in plastic purgatory. My mother was on the phone with me and we were trying to decide what to do with my bed once I move to an unknown city where all my anxieties will vanish and I can blossom into a wonderful old man with a beer gut. The thing is, my mother and I are both Aquarians, so this complicates my situation dramatically. Aquarians get very attached to objects. She said to me, "You're sad because you grew fond of your bed."

She's right. I read countless books while laying in this bed, written papers, journal entries and poems; I've cried multiple times while clutching its floral cushion headboard, I've had two different boyfriends accidentally throw up on it. It's where we fell in love and tore each other apart.

And yet it still doesn't make sense to me that of all the things that could preoccupy me at this crucial time in my life I'm worrying about a bed. My bed is a shitty Ikea bed. It's pretty, yes, but it slants to one side and that happened to be the side I always slept on when I was with that one guy. It made me feel like I was going to slowly roll into the abyss that is the crevice between one's bed and one's wall. So screw my bed. It's slanted and dumb and I don't even like flowery things anyway. But I grew fond of it. Just like I grew fond of a lot of silly things in this town: a strawberry farm, a downtown area that is one street long (fucking stupid), a boy. Since I can't take any of those with me, I'm guessing I just made up my mind: the bed comes with me.