Charlie Bear

Because I’m sick.

Because the bronchial infection may kill me at any moment.

Because I may go throw myself under a bus if it doesn’t kill me, just so I can stop hacking, coughing, and generally wondering how much liquid can drain from a person’s nose, eyes, throat, and chest before said person shrivels up like a prune.

I am going to reveal a deep, dark secret.

Are you ready?

Yes, that’s right. I still sleep with a stuffed bear.

His name is Charlie.

He traveled to Australia as part of my carry-on luggage because I was afraid to check him. He’s been covered in tears and snot and probably a little blood in his time. He used to let me dress him up like a girl (Sorry, Charlie.) He’s survived the washing machine.

My mother once washed him and then hung him outside by his neck to dry. When I saw, I had a minor meltdown.

And he’s never ever ever never ever never never never allowed to fall apart.




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