Toy Story

February 25, 2013


This is going to sound a lot like a rant.

Ready. Set. Vent.

Are you broken? You’re broken. Aren’t you? You’re really broken. Because someone broke you. Your mother broke you. You broke yourself. Your ex broke you. You’re so broken. So seriously broken. I bet it’s so hard being so broken. How do your lungs manage to continue to inflate? They must also…be…broken.

GUESS WHAT?!?!?!?!?!?!?

My favorite @#$%ing toys were broken.

Bed Buddy was broken.

He was a giant raccoon. He was almost the same size as me (when I used to sleep with him every night). And every one called him a bear. How do you think that made him feel? He was clearly a raccoon. HE HAD A GIANT STRIPED TAIL. But no one cared. No one took the time to notice. He had a complex because of it. He was broken. I slept with him every night anyway. I loved that raccoon. So much. I miss him right now. I have no idea where he is. I can’t believe I ever lost or got rid of him, if I did. Maybe my mom still has him tucked away somewhere. She’s great at stuff like that.

Peaches n’ Cream Barbie was broken. Because she got in a terrible car accident and had to be rushed to the emergency room. The surgeons wrapped her in medical (Scotch) tape. When Ken finally removed the bandages, she was left with black residue all over her body. So, she took a bath in the washing machine. It ruined her dye job. And her fake hair. From that point forward, she was broken. Crystal Barbie was my bitch after that.

Ken was also broken. He only had one outfit. A pair of shorts. Denim shorts. When he sat down, they would unbutton. You could see his butt crack. And his junk. He must have had major issues then. He probably still does today. I have no idea why I never asked Santa for more clothes for Ken. PROBABLY BECAUSE I PREFERRED KEN BROKEN.

Fred was broken. Yep. My favorite teddy bear. Fred. He was broken too. I sucked on his face most of my life. And wound the music box in his a$$ for a decade or two. He didn’t stand a chance. I’m not even sure if he had both his eyes. I didn’t care. That rough-around-the-edges bear was the love of my life.

The Christmas Dog was also broken. But through no fault of his own. I’ll give him that. Ashley broke him. She hung him from the sorority stairwell, by a noose. Who does that? He was scarred. For life. I loved him anyway. I still own him today. Even your noose couldn’t kill our love, Sister Overley.

What’s my point?

My point is…


If you want to pretend you aren’t broken OR you’d like to believe/act like you’re more broken than the rest of us, you’re a giant a$$hole. You’re not THAT special. None of us are (I act like I am…but that’s just for show).

Let’s face it, broken toys are the best. In fact, they’re the only kind of toys. They’re the toys you remember. They’re the toys you don’t forget. They’re the toys you hold on to for dear life. They’re the toys you clench in your fist until there is literally only one thread left.

If you’re not broken, you’re boring. And momma’s not in the business of being bored.

So don’t be ridiculous.

Own it. Potato Heads. And let us put your arms in your head holes. For laughs.



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