This Sucks

I keep finding myself, nightly, inside the bathroom cabinets. How am I in this position, again? I am thinking as my royal blue felt trunk presses up against the growing mold on the inside of the cabinet. Another thought I have is I wish I could walk on my own. Being a stuffed animal blows. It’s like, why do I always have to do everything She makes me do. Oh, that’s right: because I’m inanimate. If She doesn’t make me do anything I do nothing.

We are in the bathroom cabinet. She is talking to me, thinking I can hear her, which, by the way, Parents of the World: I can. You should really talk to your kids more. Stop giving them stuffed animals in lieu of wanting to have actual discussions with them. We – as a cotton-stuffed species – can’t move, but we do have brains. She says to me, “Okay, Royalton, we’re safe. We’ve escaped the Fire-y Beast of Duntron.” The Fire-y Beast of Duntron is her fat, snorting pug dog. He is barking at the bathroom cabinet, the one below the sink, the one we’ve squeezed into. I’ve played this game before. Every night, actually. We don’t get to leave the cabinet until “the beast” stops barking, and that seems to be an impossibility for this imbecile of an animal, so we don’t get to leave until Mom forces us to because it’s bedtime.

Fucking bedtime. This girl can’t sleep without me! It’s like, God forbid I would like to not sleep in the crevice of a six year old’s armpit for once in my life. I guess it’s better than bathtime, though. Nobody is teaching this child that she should NOT be submerging her felt stuffed animal in a tub of water. No, no. A tub of her own filth. Felt is not hair. It doesn’t dry nice. I’m getting crusty. My felt is a sensitive subject for me.

Also, yes, I’m a blue elephant! Get over it! Did She have to name me by my color? Royal-ton. This kid is an idiot.

I feel a tug on my trunk. “Royalton,” She says. “Listen.” There is no more barking. I’m thinking, please tell me this dog died. I would be freed from this game! Freed from this life as Her puppet.

Freed from being Her partner in crime.

Or Her make-believe child

Or Her

Pretend patient in Her Pretend Hospital.

From being Her stress ball,

Her bad dream killer,

Her absolute joy and vessel for imagination.

  

From being Her tissue.

From being Her only best friend.

I guess, at the end of the day – and also in the middle of the day and at the beginning of the day…and just always – She is my only friend? Somewhere underneath this blue felt I think maybe I’m really glad she makes me do stuff. So, thanks?

Mom calls.

“Bedtime!”

No. I still hate everything.