I was always a horrendously insecure child. I sucked my thumb voraciously until I was 13. I have a blanky (it now lives on my dresser) and I always had a woobie. Whether it was a stuffed panda in my young days, to a delightfully big stuffed bear when I aged out of the tiny bear, I always had a comfort creature. These days, with my animals long gone (grr) and my thin and fragile blanky safely out of harm’s way, I have a body pillow. It’s my woobie. I can’t sleep without it. Without my woobie I’m just a mess of arms and legs with nothing to hold on to, if you don’t count the cats.
Cats: “NO WOOBIE NO HOLD KITTEH NEED FREEEEEEDUM GO AWAY BIPED FOOD SLAVE”
So yeah, I have a body pillow. And I cling onto that motherfucker like my life depends on it. Because I might be now 34 years old, but I’m still insecure as hell, and need something soft to hang onto. You wanna fight about it?