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I love you, I just won’t share my bed with you.

Chloe Mikala is joining The Frank Page as a humorist to share short humor pieces and musings on the world. This week, we present "I love you, I just won't share my bed with you."

Boo Bear. We are gathered here today because you are the love of my life. You are the shake to my bake. The milk to my cookies. The husband to my Beyonce. And I cannot wait to share the rest of my life with you, outside of my bed. Seriously, once the clock strikes midnight, your ass is on the couch.


You know me. You’ve seen my figurative heart. I love to share. Share our clothes (I wear your hoodies), share our finances (you pay for dinner), share our Netflix (what’s your password again?) If there was an Oscar for sharing, I would win. But not really because I’m Black and this isn’t a slave movie.


What’s mine is almost yours, and what’s yours will always be mine even if we get a divorce. My love for you is eternal. I just won’t share my bed with you.


I’m sure you’re wondering why won't I share my bed with you?


Well, lets see…

Your snoring is nails on a chalkboard. You insist on spooning after sex. And if your Frodo feet touch me one more time without socks, I will find the ring myself and destroy what’s left of civilization.


It’s not me, it’s you.


Oh, what’s that? We should just get a bigger bed?


Aw, Honey Bunny...I don’t care if we’re both 5 feet tall, wear a size Kevin Hart, and the bed is Yankee Stadium.


I.

Do.

Not.

Want.

To.

Share.

My.

Bed.

With.

You.


This bed is made for fucking and that’s literally all we’ll do.


Ouch. I’m sorry. That was a bit harsh. (See I can admit when I’m wrong!)


This bed is also made for cuddle seshes, breakfast in bed, talking about our future separate living quarters like The Royals (minus racism, colonialism, and literally everyone but Harry and Meghan).


Oh, what’s that? What’s the point of getting married if we can’t share a bed?


Sex, healthcare, and Eternal Glory. (Why is this so hard to understand?)


And no, you didn’t marry a monster. You married a Cancer Sun, Capricorn Rising, Pisces Moon. This isn’t me speaking. It’s the stars.


I know you don’t believe in the stars, but you believe in and love me.


And marrying an independent woman means allowing them to independently sleep alone.


You also already said your “I will do anything for you” vows, so no take backs.


What’s that? Why can’t I sleep in the bed but the cat can?

Oh.

….


There will be no further questioning your honor.


xoxo




Chloe Mikala is a Chicago actor, comedian, and writer. More importantly she’s a sports junky and Grey’s Anatomy freak. She grew up on the little American mountain, Negro Mountain (yes it’s real) and yes she’s always accepting reparation payments. Twitter: @chloe_mikala

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