A brief note about the stain in my bed.

You all would love it if you had a friend who actually enjoyed the tedious process of doing his laundry. Maybe you actually do have a friend like that, and to him I say "cheers" and to you, "congratulations". Unfortunately, that friend isn't me.

No, my dear friends, I do not enjoy doing laundry, and so when you walk into my fairly small bedroom and notice piles of clothing on the floor, don't try to convince yourself they are clean because I am, on the whole, a clean person. They're not.

There IS a stain on my sheets, a stain that bears an unfortunate resemblence to one that might be found betwixt the sheets of either a scab-picker, a menstruating woman, or an incontinent old man and/or child. Rest assured, my friends, that none of these is the actual case. The stain is, in fact, the product of careless chocolate ice cream eating on the part of my friend Tim and myself on a particularly boring night several days ago.

Unsightly as it is, it is really nothing to be worried about; I'd gladly lay my head next to a stain primarily comprised of milk, sugar, and chocolate PRE-digestion rather than one comprised of all those things POST-digestion. As such, I'm not too worried about it.