Dear Homemade Cowboys Pillow...
Dear Homemade Cowboys Pillow,
I know you won't get this letter. This is more of a self-therapy thing for me.
Where to begin? It's been about four years since we slept together. Of course, you were never the same after the washer and dryer incident. And I know I have been putting this off for a long time now. The thing is, I will always remember you as my adolescent companion. Let's face it, you were there for me every night. It even got to the point that I couldn't function normally the next day if I didn't sleep with you the night before. Did I have a dependency issue? Perhaps.
Perhaps I just loved my freaking pillow.
I remember I went into that Home Economics class with a machismo attitude. For growing pre-teen boys, 7th grade is a confusing roller coaster of hormones. I felt I had to prove my manhood by protesting the feminist curriculum. The truth is, I'm a little gay anyway, I guess; I enjoyed learning about kitchen safety and how to iron my church clothes. I enjoyed meeting you, too.
It's funny now, thinking back on it. The assignment was to make a pillow using fabric and polyester stuffing. I could have chosen any design from the fabrics section in Wal-Mart. I chose a Dallas Cowboys pattern. I don't even watch football. But, if given the chance, I'd watch YOU all day long.
And so we were a couple, sharing the deepest, darkest secrets of growing up. You put up with my greasy head without a single complaint, and soon you developed that trademark stain. But things started to change.
I was growing up. Our long nights together were forgotten about during the day. I started to come to you less and less, sometimes losing you under my bed. I started to tell my friends that you were getting "lumpy." I know! I'm so thoughtless and selfish! I just want you to know -- no, I NEED you to know that I don't blame you for anything. You were nothing but caring and sweet and...oh god, I miss you so much!
Then there was that time I tried to mend our relationship. Six years after I made you, I decided that in order for us to continue on, I would have to wash away our past. Consider it a relationship baptism; a way to start anew in the mature companionship for which we both longed deeply. After all, I was a freshman in college. But I knew I would be risking your life in the process. I'm proud to say I wore you clean out, however would you survive the Machine?
And then that fateful day. Reluctantly, I placed you into that washing machine. Mournfully, I picked your remains from its devastating chamber.
And so, you became like many great individuals before you. Once great, now weakened. You are the Michael J. Fox, the Richard Pryer, the Muhammad Ali, and the Christopher Reeve of pillows. Although I recovered most of your insides from the throat of the Machine, you can never be what you were in my youth.
But I will always have the memories. And memories will live on even when hope seems to have been lost.
Consider this our formal goodbye; lovers parting lovers, friends parting friends...
Sunrise. Sunset.
I know you won't get this letter. This is more of a self-therapy thing for me.
Where to begin? It's been about four years since we slept together. Of course, you were never the same after the washer and dryer incident. And I know I have been putting this off for a long time now. The thing is, I will always remember you as my adolescent companion. Let's face it, you were there for me every night. It even got to the point that I couldn't function normally the next day if I didn't sleep with you the night before. Did I have a dependency issue? Perhaps.
Perhaps I just loved my freaking pillow.
I remember I went into that Home Economics class with a machismo attitude. For growing pre-teen boys, 7th grade is a confusing roller coaster of hormones. I felt I had to prove my manhood by protesting the feminist curriculum. The truth is, I'm a little gay anyway, I guess; I enjoyed learning about kitchen safety and how to iron my church clothes. I enjoyed meeting you, too.
It's funny now, thinking back on it. The assignment was to make a pillow using fabric and polyester stuffing. I could have chosen any design from the fabrics section in Wal-Mart. I chose a Dallas Cowboys pattern. I don't even watch football. But, if given the chance, I'd watch YOU all day long.
And so we were a couple, sharing the deepest, darkest secrets of growing up. You put up with my greasy head without a single complaint, and soon you developed that trademark stain. But things started to change.
I was growing up. Our long nights together were forgotten about during the day. I started to come to you less and less, sometimes losing you under my bed. I started to tell my friends that you were getting "lumpy." I know! I'm so thoughtless and selfish! I just want you to know -- no, I NEED you to know that I don't blame you for anything. You were nothing but caring and sweet and...oh god, I miss you so much!
Then there was that time I tried to mend our relationship. Six years after I made you, I decided that in order for us to continue on, I would have to wash away our past. Consider it a relationship baptism; a way to start anew in the mature companionship for which we both longed deeply. After all, I was a freshman in college. But I knew I would be risking your life in the process. I'm proud to say I wore you clean out, however would you survive the Machine?
And then that fateful day. Reluctantly, I placed you into that washing machine. Mournfully, I picked your remains from its devastating chamber.
And so, you became like many great individuals before you. Once great, now weakened. You are the Michael J. Fox, the Richard Pryer, the Muhammad Ali, and the Christopher Reeve of pillows. Although I recovered most of your insides from the throat of the Machine, you can never be what you were in my youth.
But I will always have the memories. And memories will live on even when hope seems to have been lost.
Consider this our formal goodbye; lovers parting lovers, friends parting friends...
Sunrise. Sunset.
posted by Jeff at 10:07 PM
1 Comments:
I once touched said Cowboys pillow.
It was tender. It was comforting. It smelled of Jeff.
This world was not ready for such a pillow. It had to be destroyed, and with it the dreams of a generation.
The days have seemed a bit darker ever since.
Fin.
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