I am officially old. Or… I am the Princess and the Pea. Honestly, take your pick. Neither feels like a win. So here’s what I’ve discovered. My insomnia? Not stress. Not hormones. Not some deep, mysterious life issue. No. It was caused by a certain nameless teenager living in my home. You see, this individual decided that my once perfectly firm, glorious, sleep-supporting pillows were— and I quote— “hard as rocks.” Excuse me??? So naturally, instead of… I don’t know… grabbing a different pillow like a normal human… She performed what I can only describe as pillow surgery. Pulled the insides apart. Fluffed them. Destroyed their structural integrity. All so she could watch TV more comfortably on my bed. My bed. My pillows. All of them. And I have been unknowingly suffering ever since. Because here’s the thing… I used to be able to sleep anywhere. On anything. Floor? Fine.