I was away. I was working, but I was not here. I was in another place. A wondrous place. A place that had a pillow menu. Aromatherapeutic scents were pumped into the air. I was there with two writers I love more than I loved the many many pillows. I laughed so hard I pulled heretofore unfelt abdominal muscles. I never wanted to leave.
Now I am back in this place, and there is no pillow menu here. I am expected to place my head on whatever damn pillow I can find! The aromatherapy in this place tends toward the meat-tinged and/or uriney. I've asked to change my room, but the concierge isn't answering. This is not acceptable.
But then, there are these two boys who live in this place. I love one of them enough that I plucked him from the typing pool at work and I married him, before he knew what had happened. Now he scratches my back whenever I scooch toward him on the couch and lean forward ever so slightly. He finds it more tedious than Simonizing, but he obeys the long-standing ritual of the scooch-lean-scratch. The other one, the smaller one, threw himself into my arms last night and pressed his nose against my cheek while his wet lips smashed into me and he said, "I gave you a smell-kiss. I gave you a smiss."
I am sorry, paradisical-pillow-menu-place, but these are services you cannot provide. This place totally wins.
(p.s.: call me.)