Manifesto
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At the end of a long day, he reclined in bed beneath a gloriously rumpled pile of sheets and blankets. She walked in the room and eyed him.

“You want to make it?” she asked.

He smiled and lifted up the blankets. “You animal. I thought you were tired.”

“Not make it with me-I meant make the bed.”

“Oh,” he said, lowering the blankets. “Why would I make the bed right before going to sleep in it? That’s like folding your clothes right before putting them on. It’s completely illogical.”

“Don’t you like to sleep in a freshly made bed?”

He shook his head. “I’m philosophically opposed to the whole concept.”

“Why?”

“Because we all have a limited time here on earth, and I won’t spend those precious moments making a bed right before getting in and messing it up. If you take those nightly few minutes of bed-making and add them up over an entire lifetime, the tally is extraordinary. That’s time I could spend getting rich or curing cancer or writing a manifesto of some sort.”

  
 
“You’re just lazy.”

He yawned. “Yes, that too.”

“What’s your philosophy about forced abstinence?” she said. “Maybe you’ll get a chance to write a manifesto about that.”

He got up and helped her make the bed.

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