Always beside my lifelong twin, together we cushion the places you've been. I sit when you do, the same as I rise. I blush when it's cold, and I clench with surprise. What am I?

Forgotten I linger here under your bed. Once crisp and clean, now foul instead. I travel in pairs, yet often alone. A pungent reminder of the fact that you're gross. What am I?

If you say me out loud, I am a door. If you think of me, I bring imagery of a cute love. If you feel me, there may be butterflies in your tummy. If you remove my fourth letter, I become the animal that Bambi feels this for.

I can be chewed or swallowed, yet I am not food. And example of me is stupid or rude.

I have a magic box, inside it you can see: the past, the present, the truth and the imaginary. It sits upon a wooden throne so everyone can share, but don’t stare at it too much, or else your eyes just might turn square.