My mattress terrifies me. It is the most horrible thing on Earth. That sounds hyperbolic, and you might think, "Felix, has your mattress murdered innocents? Does it cause hunger and flooding? Did it write that horribly racist column you posted at the end of January?" No, of course not. It's a mattress.
My bare mattress looks like a Wild West crime scene, all sepia toned and dreadful. I've never murdered anyone on it, nor do I routinely douse it with herbal teas or the delicious sap of the tree we call maple. Now, I don't want to get into the myriad specifics of precisely what happened on my mattress -- I'm a gentleman, after all -- and what a man does with his own furnishings is his own business, but I will say that, as a swinging bachelor with almost a college education and a really keen haircut, I've entertained more than one lady friend in my day. Or at least entertained some thoughts whilst in a horizontal position, if you follow me.
I'm saying there's lovings on my mattress.
Now the thing is, my lonely perversions aside, I have helped about a dozen friends move in my day as well. Every time I did so, I had that awkward moment when it was time to clear out the bedroom and we came upon the mattress (so to speak) that still had the fitted sheet on it, of course, to hide the terrible shame that was immediately present on the opposite side once we took it out of the room, because every time you really badly mess up your mattress, you flip it over.
I suspect there are two kinds of people in the world who, right now, have very clean mattresses. There are ultra pervs who saw this coming, likely from a previous hellscape of a mattress, and now use a protective sheet to keep the mattress pristine, and the insane. Not all the insane, of course; some of them probably have very filthy mattresses, but others are like my aunt, who may not even sleep on her mattress for fear of it ever actually getting dirty. Did you know that she has three sets of silverware that are never used? And there's a chair in her living room that is encased in plastic, and even if it weren't, even if it were free, it's carved from such cruel, Edwardian-era wood and brass knobbly bits that if you were to ever dare sit on it you would immediately be stricken lame with scolipoliosis.