Aren't Beds supposed to be fun?

Recently, very recently, I was given some very sobering information. It made me cry, it made me mad and it made me decide that I had made my bed and it was time to make like a Stepford wife and lie in it wearing nothing but a smile. However, I find that I am a lousy pacifist. I'm an even worse placid robot. As my friend Leanne said, one get's bedsores just lying there and besides, she said, I'm a fighter. Upon refection, she's right. I don't do anything without arguing, questioning and if necessary fighting. I'm still here aren't I? Still, it would be nice to wallow in self pity, pain and misery. To just indulge in feeling sorry for myself. sigh. However, I find that I suck at wallowing for much more than a few hours. For a start, I'm allergic to my tears. Damn things burn the hell out of my face. My eyelids swell, I get migraines and I turn so ugly I'd give Medusa the freaking heebee jeebies. Not only that, you can't laugh when you're having a pity party. So "Suck it up Cupcake" and no wallowing. Besides, aren't beds supposed to be FUN???? Beds are where I made my finest creations, who any day now are going to burst out and become glorious adults. However in the beginning, beds were where they were fed, cleaned, soothed, slept with, adored, played with, dressed and dreamed about. My beds have been trampolines, bed time story stations, the leaping spider and "Pigge went to Market zones." They have been the "grab the kid and tickle and lick them till they scream centers" and they have been the hug, cuddle and soothe departments. Beds are made up, messed up, changed, broken, torn apart, dressed up, flipped over and moved. Beds are for the living, not for those who have chosen to run and hide, to "Yes Dear" anyone. MY beds are for living in so get the hell out you miserable, placid, moping, wallowing, blow up doll you, "get thee gone". The fighter, survivor, the bitch on wheels is not giving up her bed for anyone.