|Great Scott, that's a shitty comforter!|
For the record, my comforter is fluffy and light, like Doctor Emmett Brown's hair. It's a neutral color because, unlike this guy who invited me over, I don't need orange rectangles and burnt sienna ovals on my bedding. He's a design nerd, I get it. His bed doesn't have to rub it in my face every time I peek inside his room.
Since he's had the thing since freshman year, it's dotted with cigarette burns from almost a decade of late night gab fests with a parade of ex-girlfriends. It feels like I'm brushing up against a hobo's crusty nostril every time one of those burns scratch my skin.
I'm not sure if they pass these shoddy bedspreads out to guys at their art school graduation or what, but they're as omnipresent in dudes' rooms as harsh overhead lighting. They go hand-in-hand, like an unpleasant peanut butter cup. Not to be dramatic, but the one-two punch of a shitty Ikea bedspread and crummy lighting is my own personal version of Guantanamo Bay. After five minutes, I'm heavily sighing as I keep a tally in chalk on his wall of how long I've been stuck in his room. And, that just makes me sad.