Women, can’t live with them, can’t smother them with cushions and get away with it

Dear Maxi,

I’ve been having a problem lately.  I don’t quite know how to put this delicately, especially as it could end up printed in a newspaper, but it’s my boyfriend.  He just doesn’t understand me, or my need for cushions.  He simply fails to see that even though I have many cushions already, I still need more.  I need cushions to go with my curtains.  I need cushions to go with my carpet.  I need cushions to go with my couch.  I need cushions to match my paintings.  I need cushions to match my slippers.

Is it just men in general who don’t understand the need for cushions in the universe?  Why doesn’t my boyfriend support my cushion necessities?  It’s like me and my cushions don’t even exist sometimes.  I like to have my friends around and we’ll just admire the new collection of Swedish cushions I got from that specialist shop in Dublin, but that just makes him angry.  It’s as if there’s a big divide us forming and if I’m honest, I actually hope it does so that I can be with my cushions.

My cushions don’t judge me.  My cushions don’t play mind games with me.  My cushions make me feel warm and cuddly inside.  I don’t know what to do.  I love my partner, but there are things in my life that only my cushions can satisfy.

I used to think that I was the one with the problem, but I know now that I’m not the one with the problem.

Just because he doesn’t appreciate cushions the way I do, doesn’t make me some kind of unbeatable cushion addict or pervert.  I love cushions and there’s nothing to be ashamed of.

Sure I spend most of my disposable income on cushions and one time I nearly lost a toe to a loan shark to feed my habit.  That’s what he calls it y’know.  A habit.  I can give up anytime I want.  In fact I’ve read Allen Carr’s Give up Cushions miracle self help book.  I’ve read it 14 times.  It helped me go for an entire fortnight without getting some new fluffy cushions.  I’m halfway through it again though, so fingers crossed.

Maybe I should think about just giving up on cushions though.  It does seem to be ruining other parts of my life.  Like for instance when I go shopping for cushions, there’s this air of indecency about it.  It’s as if the woman in the cushion shop judges me everytime I go through her doors.  Her knowing stare of what I’ll be doing when I get my cushions home.

She knows I’ll draw the curtains, lock the doors and roll around in giddy joy as I unwrap my new cushions.  Then I’ll just sit back and get a combination of goose bumps and slack jawed awe as I stare at the new addition to my formidable catalogue.

I’m at the end of my tether, I can’t keep having the same fight.  It’s not as if I take my cushions out and shove our guest’s faces into them during dinner.  I’m subtle about the whole thing, but he thinks I don’t know the meaning of the word.  Apparently leaving my cushions lying around for the cleaning lady to pick up isn’t proper etiquette.  What does he know?

He knew what he was getting in for when he married me, that’s what he knows.

Forget I sent you this, he can take it or leave it.

Peace.

Cushion lover.

P.S.

I’m actually a man.  I have a girlfriend and cushions are a metaphor for my porn stash.  What am I to do?

Dear Metaphorically gifted,

I’ll still bet she has a shit load of cushions though, right?

Keep on enjoying your stash.  If she keeps on at you, jizz on her favourite “for show only” cushion.  That’ll learn her.  Bonus points if you can spell out the words “This is what I think of your fucking cushions, cuntbitch”.  If you haven’t got much of a load due to the amount you expell over your daily self abuse, chuck out a creatvie smiley that speaks more than words ever could.  I like this one:

Glad I could help,

Peace out.

Maxi.