Dear Free Samplesperson,

I assure you, I am not going to buy Adam Jarr’s microwavable juniper sausage bites with egg noodles. My interest in them is limited to how many scalding paper ramekins-worth I can fit in my mouth before you invoke what little authority you have. Anyway, I only came over to make small talk over small portions because I needed to throw away the four spoons I collected from Mister Bisque’s table. His trashcan is full, and that’s no surprise. Did you know he let me try the clam, the monkfish, the crabstick, and the Lobsterette lobster substitute bisques? Vile, unthawed mash it was, but I appreciate a sense of charity among those who mete out free things. I would berate you further, free samplesperson, but you work in a wholesale club and are over one hundred years old. You probably knew Adam Jarr.

Yours Faithfully, The Gentleman of the Site

Dear Sir/Madam,

It might have been curious enough that our species had evolved to create special furniture for horizontal activities such as but not limited to sleeping, but at some point it became that no household was complete without a room intended for the bed. A temple, in which the altar is both totem and primary furnishing, speciously designed in the name of the sleeper. This cannot be so, for it must be asked to whom are those precious hours of consciousness being sacrificed? Not to mention certain bodily fluids. Nevertheless, the place where a man chooses to lay his head — or a woman perhaps — is of great importance to the understanding of Man as a whole — and Woman, as a hole.

Does the status of the bedroom have any measure of its significance to the man who dwells within? Most certainly. Paradoxically, you will find that tidiness is not a factor here, as a room unkempt is actually testament to how sacred it is to the user. One of the first logical leaps a boy will make is arguing the futility of “making” one’s bed. “Its order will only become ruined after one night’s use,” he thinks, “What is the purpose of ‘making’ the bed as it will only reverse what I have so obviously done to make it mine?” The boy inevitably succumbs to maternal pressure, and even after he learns to arrange his sheets and covers to impress the opposite sex. Admittedly, the man appreciates an immaculate bed when in the boudoir of his partner as well, but only as it affords him the opportunity to soil it in his own signature fashion.

Myself? I do not own a bed and, whenever possible, do not allow one in my quarters. Neither do I own pajamas or nightgowns or other slumberwear. I prefer to be in the nude or whatever garments I happen to still be in when I drop. “Drop” is indeed the operative word as I am not comfortable with the concept of sleeping. Time is precious, and I’d prefer that the angels’ share of my years be as paltry as possible. So occasionally I rest or doze, if I were to become bored by the braindry hallucinations in my periphery of vision, but mainly I wait until the last dregs of my energy are sapped performing my daily (and nightly) activities. Thus I collapse, thrown burning into Morpheus’ chaotic realm, oblation to no one but Myself.

Yours Faithfully, The Gentleman of the Site