Sometimes I make my bed

As the clever title suggests, sometimes I make my bed. While this may be an ingrained habit of most, that is not the case with me. My mother never harped on bed making (or vegetable eating for that matter) or any of those trivial tidiness chores. The downfall of all this is that on multiple occasions I am struck with fear and suspicion the moment I enter my room. Who's been here? Has anything been stolen? Why did they make my bed? Undoubtedly they made the bed to conceal spiders or itching powder as repayment for some practical joke I played years ago.

Chairlift to heaven

I don't know what happens when you die but I believe there is more. While I'm tempted to rant about what that may (or may not) entail, I won't. I'm writing to say that I think it's more important to find your vehicle. Take that as literally as you will. I know, without a doubt, how I will travel into this infinite abyss. I'll be on a chairlift.