Sad Stuffed Animals

tristis est anima
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from the author: I’ve recently noticed that a few of the people “following” this blog have tumblr pages full of self-harm imagery. i’m no psychiatrist or psychologist but - hey - please get some help, talk to someone. so a lot of the themes of kind of revolve around depressive moments - but rest assured, audience, they’re entirely made up. It’s just an art project. It’s about projecting human emotions on intimate objects. It’s about the incongruity of a thing once-loved, now discarded. It’s also meant to be a little funny. The misery in the stories is overstated for a reason: it’s about the incongruity between an item of joy and it’s made-up history of misery. Maybe it echoes some underlying depressive emotions, ok whatever, but it’s just an art project. Not even that good of one. If you’re suffering - seek out some help. again, i’m not a doctor, just a human.

From: EV Grieve

When you have nowhere to live you sleep where you can, you sleep where you fall.

Thousand yard stare on a pink piggy still haunts

Times are tough. You do what you have to do to get by.

Working a low paying wage job is tough, but - it’s no tougher than any other job. Nobody really wants to be doing what they’re doing all day for money. They do it because they have to, and there’ s a certain dignity in that. Also, when money is coming in, no matter how low, at least it’s money. People who have never been completely without money, or without opportunity to make money, can never know what it’s really like to look forward to the paycheck that adds up at $6 an hour, or less.

Also tough - being a Panda. People think you’re way cuddlier than you are. You’re still a bear, after all. You can’t help it if you come across as adorable, all fluffy and furry and lookin’ like all you want is a nice, big hug. 

Even tougher- being a Panda who works a low paying job. It’s not enough you have to work at the front lines of interaction for every increasingly annoyed citizen who passes by your register, but you often have to take and swallow gruff from these masses of people who- annoyed at you- still make tremendous amounts of more money than you. Leaving you in the precarious position of being subservient to hordes of busy, harried and altogether rude individuals, who only want to overpay for their things and get going.

Where is your monument, low-wage panda? Where is the memorial to all your hard work? Where is the plaque to the burden you shouldered, while the world shuffled by your queue?

It was tough to break Gizmo, but eventually he talked.

This dejected mix of abandoned, once-loved, now abandoned stuffed animals was spotted by Amanda S. outside a convalescent’s home in Flatbush, Brooklyn, this past Fall. Lying in an empty patch of dirt amidst overgrown weeds by a bus stop, these little guys stared helplessly at  passers-by oblivious in their headphone psychospaces to this sad and fluffy scene, until Amanda noticed them, took a single photo, and moved on.

As a tribute to this collection of discarded vessels of affection- this aftermath of a Care Bear battlefield, Sad Stuffed Animals would like to take this moment to go through an Honor Roll of sorts, and give these lost and lonely toys that one aspect of “humanity” denied them by their pathetic circumstance: a name and a story.In no particular order, let us pause for a moment to recognize:

Stompy. A blue and purple spotted Tyrannosaur. Enjoyed rainy afternoons, and playing with his grandkids.

Hopsy. A now-white but once-pink bunny. Known for his sense of humor, which friends suspected was forged by a rough childhood in the Bronx, that he never spoke of, but was apparent in his accent, from time to time.

Charles. A brown bear in a red sweater, about whom not much is known, other than his name, and his occupation: welder.

Geronimo. A grey elephant. Though she suffered from dementia in her later years, according to her nurses, when her memories went her true nature revealed itself: kind, generous, friendly, even to people she didn’t know, which - at the end, was everyone. The one thing she could remember, though, were the lyrics to the songs of her youth, sung on summer nights out on the Savannah. Somehow, dementia never touched those songs. Doctors never knew why.

Eli. A brown rat. Found clutching a single, faded photograph of an unnamed brown rat, sitting on the hood of a 1957 Hudson, squinting and smiling to the camera.

Robert “Red” Wellington. A bear. Lost an eye during a home invasion / gang initiation when he refused to hand over his father’s watch. Raised his two brothers, ages 3 and 9, when his  aunt slid deeper into the ravages of hoarding and madness. 

Fluffy. A pink bunny. 

Fluffy Two. A pink and white spotted bunny.

Mr. Hoots. A wise old owl, who wrote a bestseller as a young man, but never finished his second novel, and took to alcohol and the Internet as a combination procrastination device / anxiety reliever. Neither provided much relief from the nagging sense of a wasted life. Until, enough time had passed, and he knew it was impossible to finish his book, so he gave up, and was in that sense, finally a free owl.

A note to readers of Sad Stuffed Animals dot com: As always, submissions are welcome.

Good luck with everything
Fallen over elephant
They say your sway is a way of running the Serengeti in your dreams
Sway away elephant. Sway chained and sway.
‘cuz even if they’ve chained you here
You’re free in your mind
And with their hooked sticks try and lead you,
Waiting for the time- a moment to break free from the shackles and the mains
The holy refrains
They said just dance again
But Kilimanjaro’s dead
Never to rise again
And elephants don’t forget
It’s all still in their heads
Repeats over again

Sway elephant sway
Sway in clanky chains
Sway and run away
everyone - it’s all okay

Today’s sad stuffed animal is a submission from “Princess.” Thank you Princess.