Somedays, I feel it swallowing me.
******* me down like a half-priced, happy hour, fruity ******* drink.
Somedays, I can't even find the top or bottom or inside or out.
Like my Grandpa with his first iPod.
Somedays, I feel it shouting at me, "You're not better than this".
You sound just like my mother.
Somedays, I give in to it.
Like we're in a thumb war, and it's the 8th grade bully with mutant steroid fingers.  

Then I remember.
It's just my bed.
And it's really time for me to wake up.