If you're looking for porn, this isn't it. Sorry. Maybe another time.
But I love my bed. I could spend my life there, crawling in it, moaning because I like it so much, and looking at the trees through the window; hearing the birds during the warm seasons, the silence in the winter. I can't resist the nesting feeling. Getting up is torture.
Of course, when my feet are on the ground, I am non-stop: writing, exercising, cooking, running after the little bitches Colette and Simone, cleaning Beckett's cage, listening to Pierre (tough task, listening to spouses), etc.
But truly, am I a lazy bum in the closet? A bed potato?