Can't Buy Me Love. Probably.
When I was a little girl, I honestly believed every inanimate object came alive at night. In fact, I thought they were alive all day long, playing opossum until nightfall. In this vein, I had many staring contests with a certain purple teddy bear.
Oh, he was good. He was really good.
With this idea firmly planted, for reasons I cannot fathom, I tried to show my inanimate objects some mercy.
On Christmas, all my dolls and stuffed animals got to sleep in my bed, with the covers perfectly up to their necks so they could breathe, and all side by side so they could snuggle.
There usually wasn't room left for me.
On many mornings, my mother would walk into the dining room to find her chairs laying sideways on the floor. After sitting up all day, I knew they had to be exhausted.
I tried to avoid attachments to anything glass. Too much possible heartache there.
That must be why, when it's time to upgrade my life, I mourn just a little bit.
Partially for how the object must feel to be discarded. Partially because I'm attached to my money most of all.