When Sorrows Come...

...they come not single spies but in battalions.

So in the last four hours, our household has encountered: head trauma, cat piss, trip to the ER, dead car battery, prescription mixup, and what I can only describe as the most convoluted jumpstart in which I've ever participated: three cars, two instruction manuals, a subpar flashlight, and glass cleaner. At least it wasn't raining. All is well now, or getting there.

I spent my evening blissfully unaware off all of this, half-heartedly cleaning my room in a nesting kind of manner as I prepare for the new bed. For all the fuss I've made about it, it should probably get some kind of designation, but naming a bed is a dodgy prospect. If you choose a suitably crass name, something Diablo Cody-esque, people will automatically get the wrong idea about you — especially if you spend all your time sleeping alone. If you go with something too punny but still crude, you'll be tempted too often to bring up the creepy fact that you've named a functional piece of your furniture. Perhaps the best option is the least enticing, and simply calling your bed "Slumbertron 2000", or "Schlafenstrasse".