Foolish human, trying to remove me from my bed! Your puny attempts to rouse me from my slumber are worthless! Monday through Friday Roger Smith gets up and goes to work, Saturday is for chores and errands, but Sunday? Sunday there is no Roger Smith. There is only The Cocoon.

Look at you pulling at my blankie. You are so stupid and weak. My body is like an iceberg: there is so much more of me under this blanket, you cannot possibly get me to move! You will never find where the sheets end and the man begins, and in time even I will forget.

Even now your incessant tugging is lulling me into a dream…I’m on a cruise ship made of pillows. The captain is a particularly fluffy sheep. He lets me drive the boat. I sink it. Whoopsie. As we descend into the goose feather ocean, he asks me why? Why? I just laugh, and it turns into a cute yawn —

Ah, stop it, Honey, PLEASE! Five more minutes! No, no, no, no —

Yes, yes, YES! Hahaha! Look at you yanking off my top blanket husk, like that will do anything. You ignorant moron! I have many, many layers, like a very tired onion.

This is not the man you married! Monday through Friday I am Roger Smith, 34, businessman. Saturday I love golfing and embarrassing my children when we go out to eat. But Sunday, when I am in this bed, I am The Cocoon, and I do not recognize the face of my wife. I have no child. Think of me like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Tired.

I have many defense mechanisms. My breath smells like a horse gave birth in my mouth, and I can make it attack you like a mean dog. My feet are so cold, you will think for just a second, “What if he’s dead?” And that’s when I will lash out with the speed of 1,000 exhausted sloths!

Ah, clever girl. You moved my alarm clock to the other side of the room so I would have to get up and turn it off. Well guess what? That unrelenting high-pitched beeping? It’s now my favorite song. Sometimes I play it to help me fall asleep. In fact I’m beginning to feel drowsy…

I’m the conductor of the Philadelphia Philharmonic Orchestra, but every instrument is a fat man snoring. The audience is throwing bouquets of ZzzQuill onto the stage. I take a bow, and lie down, and —

Ah, stop! Honey, I’m up, I’m up, I’M UP —

Haha, I’m not even close to being up! It would take an act of god himself to pull The Cocoon out of this bed. Give up! I will make you promises and immediately break them. Roger doesn’t want to hurt you, but The Cocoon doesn’t give a shit. I will say some of the meanest, nastiest, most unforgivable things in order to stay in my downy lair, and I won’t remember them when I wake up, so you can’t even be mad at me! Think of me as the little Exorcist girl but an adult and totally zonked out.

They say a restful night of sleep is eight hours. I say quadruple it! I want Rip Van Winkle’s nap to look like a goddamn blink. I’m 165 pounds but my sleep weight is seven tons! To rouse me would be to wake a mountain! A mountain that is tuckered-out, yes!

Oh, I’m dreaming again! I am California King. I am wearing a crown made of the gunk in the corners of your eyes. I have just declared war on the sun… we will attack it at night… it will never expect it…