yey i made a skin



It was a cold, rainy day at the children’s museum. I was only about five at the time, and of course I was having a meltdown because of some silly thing.
My parents, being very aware of all the nice people watching me kicking and screaming, decided to buy me something from the gift shop. They bought me a “Pooh bear”.

This honey-colored stuffed bear became something of a real friend for my five year-old mind. Whenever I got in trouble at school, or Mommy and Daddy were having a “disagreement” I would run under my bed and sit there for long hours with my Pooh bear.

As I grew older, Pooh bear was still there for me, whether I was being bullied at the playground, or forgot my homework, I could always count on Pooh to cheer me up. I always felt happy around him, more… alive.

Eventually, I was told, or rather it was drilled into my mind by a bunch of boring grown-ups, that “Pooh bear” wasn’t real. He was just a figment of my imagination. But I didn’t care so much. Pooh always would comfort me. He was always there for me, unlike my Daddy, unlike my distant relatives that were supposed to look after me, unlike my Mommy, and unlike all the boring adults that tried to make my life “happier”. Pooh was a real friend, unlike all the kids at school, the ones who called me mean names.

                                                                              Pooh bear is my hero.
                                                                                 Pooh bear is real.