Jamyla Blackmon

Coziness is a box-springed reality-deal-with-er.

Sometimes I think my bed hates me. No, truly. I think it does in the most human way possible: passive-aggressively. You see, it was my younger sister's bed before I moved into my dad's two-story house in the wee months of 2020, so it's allowed to harbor some feelings of dislike towards a five-five, twenty-seven year-old woman who just piles her life onto it. When we first met, it was an uncompromising destroyer of my sleep.