My aunt has this magical talent of being able to find a children's book on any conceivable subject. She asked me once what I would like to read about, and I said, "A book about a kid named Josh and his blanket."
Somehow she found it.
I raced through the pages, positively ecstatic. But then it said something horrible, that part of growing up is learning to sleep without a blanket, because if you didn't, it would tear to shreads and waste away to nothing.
Lies! Lies! Lies!
I hated that book.
I still sleep with my blanket. My grandmother, my mother and I have all taken turns resewing the edges. It is now a permanent greyish off-white and smells more like me than I do. But it's sinful softness still helps me fall asleep.
Stupid book.