It should come as no surprise that I find you repulsive. Both of you. You're nothing more than soiled, foul-smelling loops of cheap terrycloth.
Red, you're pretty much a joke. You were part of a four-pack sold at the Dollar Store! The baseball emblem that was so feebly embroidered upon you will soon be completely unraveled.
Blue, you were a resented purchase. You were expensive and in my eyes, unnecessary. Look at you now: The white half of the Pokeball isn't even white anymore. Despicable.
Regrettably, you've got one thing going for you: you're lucky. Lucky that my beloved son finds you essential to his well-being.
To my sweet seven-year-old child, you are his security and his strength. You are his protectors and his enablers. He is obsessed with finding you and holding you and wearing you both.
The fact that he can't put pencil to paper and write one simple sentence without you wrapped around his wrists bothers me to no end.
I want you gone. I want you in the trash. You're stained and smelly and of such poor quality that you'd never survive the washing machine.
I wish with every fiber of my being that he didn't need you. But he does.
So you'll stay. For now.
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