It’s common sense that the higher a man’s mattress is off the floor, the more secrets he’s hiding. Don’t believe me? When was the last time you read a news article or watched a movie about someone finding something benevolent under a bed?
Since the fifteenth century, the negative space under a bed has been associated with boogeymen and not much else. The best thing anyone’s found under there in recent years is a spare set of house keys, a dried cat turd, or the hastily dismembered body of an unlucky neighbor girl.
My partner should be so lucky I spend one-third of my life only seven inches from the floor. I can’t hide so much as a second phone or stack of divorce papers under my mattress without arousing suspicion, so why are modern men catching so much flack for having no bed frame?
The innately critical female gaze has been responsible for the spiritual deaths of more men than all the wars combined. Why hasn’t the UN launched a probe into this? No need for men to do peyote in the desert to experience an ego death. I have my wife right next to me reducing my manhood to dust with her list of grievances. Stop telling me your back hurts from sleeping on the ground when clearly it hurts from shoveling the snow off the driveway I said I’d take care of last week.
If you think I’m being dramatic, let’s just assume I finally get the gall to murder my neighbor who’s always letting his shiba inu shit all over my lawn. Once he’s reported missing and police start searching houses, any detective with half a brain is going to look in one of three places. Under the bed, the bathtub, and in the closet. Well, they’d be shit out of luck, because I don’t have any of those things.
I can’t hide anything larger than an umbrella in my free-standing IKEA wardrobe. How do I know this? I tried to stow my hyper-realistic silicone sex doll in there before my landlord came by and she hasn’t looked me in the eye since.