When you go to a friend’s house to stay the night and get stuck with the scratchy blanket.

You know the one.

It’s made of wool.

It has satiny trim that tries to deceive you into thinking this will be a nice blanket experience.

But it’s not.

Every house has one. 

It’s buried deep in the bowels of the linen closet, under some afghans and a comforter with the down coming out of it, but make no mistake.

The scratchy blanket is there. 

And it waits. 

but why though

why notes

why