My monster and I love each other. We love each other with the passion of movies and popcorn. We’re attached at our sweat glands. We tickle each other endlessly, provoking reactions that only true lovers know how to get. When I’m upset my monster is there to wrap its dark arms around me and whisper sweet nothings of nightmares and fairy tales. It will protect me from the rain. It will be there for me when I get fired. It will be there for me when others die. It will get the paper for me in the morning and point out the interesting sections. It will take abuse and give abuse and still draw me ever closer into its bosom. You try to lift me up and I will shut you down, pull you down, drag you down to me in my tent made of sofa backs and afghans. I feed your goodness to my monster and laugh when it burps. I cackle wickedly and slam myself against walls to prove how my monster will catch me everywhere I go, and help me do whatever I want. My monster will do the slamming for me, if I ask it. It loves me, and I love it.