I didn't realize his apartment was B.Y.O.P. (Bring Your Own Pillow.) The lump of cotton he tossed me was more like a thick napkin then the kind of fluffy, luxurious bedding I usually associate with the word, "pillow." I have to fold it over and bunch it just to prop my head up. This is horrible! How can he sleep on this thing? It's like resting on Olive Oyl's bony knee.
I won't even get into this sorry excuse for a pillow case. It looks (and smells) like an onion ring wrapped in sweatpants and buried under a couch cushion. Is that a cigarette burn on it? He wants me to put my face on this dingy scrap of fabric?
It's basically how a girl looks when she does a walk of shame: gnarly, funky, and unfit for public viewing. Yes, his pillow is like sleeping on a girl doing her walk of shame. And, that just makes me sad.