Maybe I should tell people they’re collector’s items?

I am a grown-ass woman with a problem.

I don’t know what to do with my stuffed animals.

I’m far too selfish to give all of them away, even to friends’ children. I’ve steadily done so in the past, but now I’m down to the core group that I just can’t part with.

Is that nuts?

Probably not. I could be saving them for my own, unborn, children. Right?

Except here’s the thing: I tried putting them in a garbage bag the other day, so that I could put them in storage.

But I couldn’t.

Like, because they would suffocate or something.

Ok, I didn’t actually think that. Seriously, at least. But the thought of them getting all musty and gross in some outdoor storage shed? Nope.

I mean, I don’t have them lined up on my bed or anything… but they are in a plainly-visible pile on a shelf in my bedroom.

I thought about taking them to my parents’ house and leaving them in my childhood bedroom there, but those sneaky so-and-sos are slowly reclaiming the room as their own. It’s like they own the house or something. The last time I stayed the night, I was told I could “sleep in the computer room.” More and more of those little odds-and-ends I never knew what to do with are being boxed up and brought to my apartment whether I want them there or not. And I’m not sure Gordie Cow could withstand the stress of moving back-and-forth so many times. He’s seen a lot, y’all. Had a rough life.

So the next time you come over to my place, do me a favor and kindly ignore the (literal) elephant in the room until I can figure out what to do with him. Thanks.

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