I'm sad you guys.
I went to a thrift store with my boyfriend yesterday because my tennis shoes, one of the three sets of shoes I own (an old beat up set of converse knee-boot sneaker things and a cheap pair of sandals that are falling apart are the other two) have done that outer-part-separating-from-the-soles-and-inner-cloth cracking death thing, so I know they're not going to last much longer but I can't afford new new ones so I went to look for some old new ones, and yeah. I didn't find the shoes (I have ridiculously small feet, my size is really hard to find anywhere NEW, much less used) but I did find this huge fluffy stuffed sheep (a ram, going by the horns) that was a dollar and I was just like GHASP I MUST HAVE and yeah. It came home with me.
So, the sad thing is, after sanitizing and washing it (I am paranoid about germs and hold no illusions as to the cleanliness of thrift store merchandise) it found it's way onto my bed, naturally, and when I was going to sleep I found it made a really good pillow so I was kind of hugging it. I felt my other plush, an official Disney plush of Angel from the Lilo and Stitch series (the pink female one with the antennae) against my back and I suddenly felt terrible because I was hugging the new plush and not the other one that I usually cling to in my sleep and what if she was lonely or jealous and oh god what if she thought I'd replaced her?!
So I ended up having to figure out this weird position so I could hug both of them because I didn't want her getting jealous and potentially plotting my or the sheep's demise.
Before anyone asks, I'm twenty-one (turning twenty-two in August) and yes I realize this is probably a really sad thing for an adult-ish woman to do, but nyeh. I can't help but think of plushies and stuff as alive in some way, and that has nothing to do with the Toy Story movies, I was doing that before they came out. If one falls off the bed or something, I have to pick it back up and make sure it's okay and apologize to it if I knocked it off and all this other stuff. They always have names and assigned genders (I haven't named the ram yet because I'm not sure what to call him) and yeah. This may well stem from the fact that I didn't really have friends as a kid (the only 'friends' I had were one or two kids, one a neighbor boy who used me as an excuse to come over and raid our fridge, the other a girl my age who used me as an excuse to hang out with my older sister, pulling the "two's company, three's a crowd" line on me and running off with her to leave me sitting alone somewhere) so the only 'friends' I had were my stuffed animals, who I always gave names and personalities and all to. I had most of the ones I'd grown up with since I was a toddler up until the house fire, which destroyed them all. Consciously I know they're nothing but cloth and stuffing, but still. I even used to worry about leaving a big plush goat I had alone with my plush coyote Ky(pronounced kai), because coyotes are their natural predators and all. It was like I half expected to come home to see stuffing and shredded cloth spread out all over my bedroom floor, with a very fat satisfied looking coyote plush sitting on the bed.
Um...yeah. Not sure where I'm going with this. I just thought the first bit was kind of funny, didn't mean to get into that whole messed up psychology bit there. I think it's actually a recognized thing, though, to project personalities and identities onto inanimate objects. Probably.
......I miss Ky. 8(