I didn’t make my bed, and as I drove away from home, I remembered it and felt a pang of guilt. It’s not the end of the world, I rationalized. How many people actually take the time to make their beds, anyway? I haven’t always been good about it, it’s just that I realized I like that small spot of order in an otherwise chaotic, uncontrollable world. I might not be able to predict the course of my morning commute, but at least my bedcovers are smooth and inviting when I finally return home.
The Unmade Bed and the Fall of Civilization
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