I spend unholy amounts of time in my bed. I am either out having marathon adventures in the city or under the covers. I’m bipolar like that. I don’t know if I could be in a relationship with anyone who couldn’t spend entire days with me, half watching a movie, reading the newspaper or picking at lo mein from under the confines of the bedspread. My couch must be jealous. I have a perfectly fine living room with a much bigger television and room to spread out. But somehow I always find myself locked in my room, curled up under the blankets, my laptop propped up against my knees and the air conditioning heavily humming. Those days I think I can feel my muscles atrophy. Those days I ignore most of the phone calls and never get around to ordering groceries so instead I order more sushi and try not to spill soy sauce in the sheets. I don’t know how I could survive a week without a day in bed, or even just a night. I need to be in my cocoon. I need to.