“A bachelor’s life is no life for a single man.”
-Samuel Goldwyn

Sometimes I think J. keeps me around just for the pleasure of watching the constant stream of wacky, inexplicable, laughable things that seem to happen to me.  We were cuddling at his flat last night, watching the basketball game with some of his flatmates, when he ran his hand down my arm, paused, and laughed, “You’ve got goosebumps.”
“No,” I answered in confusion and felt along my bicep as well.  There were some little bumps, but they weren’t goosebumps.  Perplexed I felt again because, in spite of the lack of redness or anything, it felt like an allergic reaction.
“What have I touched?” I demanded, glancing around the bacherlor pad.
“Well…you did touch The Blanket.”

It should be explained at this point that The Blanket has maintained a residence on one of the boys’ three sofas for as long as J. and I have been dating, and to this day I’m not entirely sure who it belongs to (as I’ve heard two names put forward as the owner).  I’ve also never personally seen anyone sleep under it, wrap oneself in it, cuddle with it, or any of the other uses a blanket in such a position usually adopts.  Obviously, it is regarded with a degree of wary respect/fear by visitors.

I bolted off the sofa and stared at The Blanket, which I now realized I had been leaning against while watching the game, oblivious to my danger.
“What’s in that thing,” I snapped in fear, scratching at my arm, “smallpox?!”

I still have no idea what happened.  But I have another item on the list of why I’m enjoying having a place to myself (as if I needed any more after the wretched Exploding Milk Incident, the memory of which persists and keeps me from buying more than half gallon jugs out of fear of a reprisal).