Dear God,
Here is a question, humbly asked.
Why did you invent the goddamn fitted bed sheet?
Sorry, I knew my anger would run away from me.
Seriously, though, why? And you expected them to be foldable? Is "foldable" even a word? See how upset I am?
And I'm a writer with a rep!
It's bad enough you invented laundry. Then you led me to my wife, who is in so many ways wonderful, but who insists that the fitted bed sheet must be folded neatly and carefully stored away in a cool, dry place.
Like it's some fucking special bottle of wine from the Renaissance or the stolen Mona Lisa.
My bed sheets look like a bad car accident, with bleach. Maybe they can cover the corpses.
Zika? Really? You thought this was a good time to insert the next deadly disease?
Then you put the Olympics in Rio?
Donald Trump?
And those sheets. Every week. Weeks and weeks of sheets and sheets. Holding and folding and cursing and scolding.
I think my fitted sheets are becoming a fitted straitjacket.
