AITA for Choosing the Closet Over My Big Boy Bed?
By James, Age 3 (Certified Cozy Goblin and Closet Real Estate Agent)

Hi, I’m James. I’m three. I have opinions, limited furniture respect, and a deep emotional connection to enclosed spaces. This week, I made a controversial life choice: I sleep in my closet.

Why? Let’s talk about the mattress.
It’s foam. FOAM. It jiggles like uncertainty and smells like betrayal. There are no crib bars, no womb-like boundaries. Just air. And freedom. And expectations. Disgusting.

So I moved. Into the closet.
Which is:

• Tiny ✔️
• Dark ✔️
• Smells like shoes ✔️
• Spiritually aligned with my need to burrow ✔️

I dragged in my blanket. Three stuffed animals. Two band-aids for emotional reasons. Then I curled up beside Mom’s laundry basket and whispered my truths to the lint.

Mom says, “This isn’t sustainable.”
Dad says, “Is he part raccoon?”
My brother Jack says, “That tracks.”

But here’s the thing: I feel safe here. The light peeks through the door like a soft hug. My toes touch the wall like a grounding ritual. The acoustics? Chef’s kiss.

Yes, I occasionally wake up covered in clean socks. Yes, the vacuum tried to enter once. Yes, the cat now refuses to share her corner. But is that my fault, or the fault of an industry that sold me a bed made of lies?

So… AITA for sleeping in my closet?

Or am I just a visionary reclaiming square footage for emotional architecture?

Sound off, Internet.
And please do not disturb my sock nest.
It’s centered.