Slumberland has nothing on me.

When I was younger, I used to lament the fact that my beds were relatively devoid of life. Not that I was dreaming of fornication when I was 6, but besides a pillow or two and a blanket, there wasn't much to shout about when it came to my nights. I never slept clutching an action figure; even my sheets were nondescript and simple, usually consisting of not more than two colours, or, if my mother felt it was special, they'd break out in strange, flowery ensembles.

Now, almost 2 decades later, nothing has changed. The bed is bigger, but the song remains the same. Sometimes I miss sleeping on a sofa...the total lack of space helped in making me forget what I was missing. Then again, I never really had a teddy bear or stuffed animal before...most probably because my parents thought it wasn't essential.

And it wasn't.

I suppose a boy turns into some sort of a man when he realizes that the greatest companion in bed is a real one. Which means that I'd reach adulthood at 13, but kept it under a lock and key until now.

Speaking of which, my father never really initiated me into adulthood/manhood when I reached 18...and 21. It's as though he threw me to the lions and never looked back. I suppose that his consistent absence was more than a valid excuse...but I always expected him to sit me down over a cup of coffee and give me some sort of life-changing pep talk. But, I'm happy to say I feel that I turned out half-alright despite the lack of proper supervision.

Fabulous. The bed beckons.

I love useless nostalgia.