A Love Letter

A Poem by Ranger Kessel

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When things are as they should be, my bed is a f*****g palace.

Overstuffed with pillows, quilts and satiny sheets that would make that little Downy bear from the commercials jealous... Cute, little b*****d.

The bed is somewhere I am able to relax, feel comfortable, and call home for a spell. The one place in the f*****g universe where nothing bad can happen. No late night gypsies going through my f*****g pockets.

The bed should stand as the cathedral of dreams.

In my bed, I can comfortably ponder the dangers I may encounter as I travel through life.

Zombies? Not in my f*****g bed. No way.

If you happen to catch me on the street, and we have one of those ridiculous movie chases where you walk all zombie like and I run, occasionally stumbling along the way, and look all helpless and s**t while I do, and you catch me, then, it’s on, m**********r.

If I’m out and about, and I am able to outrun you with the speed of my living, blood pumping limbs, I will make it back to the safety of my bed. You will be left s**t out of luck. You’re not eating my f*****g brains today.

If the mere sight of my bed doesn't do your unholy zombie brain eating a*s in, my f*****g quick draw laser guided pillow star will surely take your b***h a*s down.

My bed is a respite in a world of zombies.

Can zombies swim? People die at sea all the time. What if they suddenly found themselves awake in the middle of the ocean with a hunger for human brains? Would their lungs fill with water? Unable to swim, would they walk the bottom of the sea in their quest for blood?

Doesn't matter, they’re not getting me in my bed.

Would jumping off a rooftop preclude you from enjoying the reanimation of the un-dead? Even if the rest of your body had been ready to pour maple syrup on, your head would probably still be intact.

Then what?

Doesn't matter, not in my bed.

The internal workings of a zombie remain a mystery. Eating raw brains would probably do a number on any digestive system.

What would happen if a zombie, blessed with the good fortune of a wholesome diet of human brains, ate until their digestive system was filled beyond capacity? Would their insides begin putting pressure on their dead skin, forming little cracks that would ooze s**t out slowly as they kept cramming more in? Would they explode? Would there be a trail of brains and dripping s**t everywhere they walked?

Doesn't f*****g matter in my bed.

What if a person died in the guillotine? Their head was reattached during embalming. Would this person come back to life as a zombie?

What if there was a cure for the zombie outbreak?

Is a zombie snuff film legal? Should it be?

What would happen if a zombie ate zombie brains?

What if a zombie ate the brains of a person who was bitten, but not immediately showing any signs of infection?

Get the idea?

In my bed, it doesn’t f*****g matter. You’re not f*****g getting me.

From my bed, I can take out my little, black notebook. The one that I bought with every intention of being inspired to write again, but two years later remains blank, my little, black pen that I hold onto tightly because the sight of blue ink drives me absolutely f*****g crazy, and write about whatever it is that seizes my mind like a passing fancy. I will read it later on, long after I forgot about the subject matter I penned, think it’s garbage, tear it up, and throw it away.

It’s alright. The bed knows and doesn't judge me. It just sits there, keeps me warm, and protects me as my brain goes into some sort of magical, la-la, f*****g mystery land every night.

You can break up with me, but not in my f*****g bed.

You may have never seen it, but my mattress has extrapolated the information from my thoughts, dreams, and memories, and fashioned the perfect outline for your a*s. A comfortable place for all of your spooning needs.

Mutant aliens with a briefcase full un-lubricated penetration devices?

Get fucked...not in my bed!

In my bed, I am Bruce F*****g Lee. Bruce F*****g Lee with the power of the f*****g force.

In my bed, I will f**k you up. Physically, mentally or otherwise.

In my bed, I have a mustache. A magical, punch you in the face because your orange juice glass left a goddamn ring on the counter mustache. A mustache that if you saw on the street, you would stop for a moment as if frozen, but not really know why. Your lips would uncontrollably mouth out the words: “There’s something about that guy!”

I would turn around and say, “There is. It’s the f*****g mustache.”

You would smile uncontrollably ear to ear as if you were the victim of some sort of smile virus which was showing you no mercy. That would make me smile in the same fashion. You know this to be true.

Not awe, not fear, just mustache.

No flashlight required in my room. Not with my bed.

No checking under the bed. As if…

Wrapped comfortably in the quilt sewn by the fingers of a very special grandma, not my pissed up, soil the bed, puke in the kitchen and go back to bed grandma, but someone’s loving grandma with protective and love infused fingers and silver hair and little white mustache that kind of looks cute on her, get a perm every week and pie eternally in the oven grandma, I rest my head safely next to my little, black notebook, black ball point pen, watching the clouds drift and bump into each other mindlessly, and dream of you as the light from every star passes in front of my window like the little wind up toy I had as a child, and I know there are two truths in the world, “I love my bed, and I love you.”