Today my sister and I were all yacky-yacky like normal, Skypin‘ it up about this-n-that nonsense like we always do. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a wild question appeared:
WTF was Dolly for Sue‘s major malfunction?
Seriously — why the hellz was she on the Island of Misfit Toys? There’s a spotted elephant (which is totally cute, BTW — but at least his presence on the island makes sense). There’s a bird who swims rather than fly. And of course… Nobody wants to play with a Charlie in the Box!
I know you’re thinking this should be a Christmas-time blog post. But I wasn’t thinking about it at Christmas-time. I was thinking about it today, a warmish May afternoon in which the sun was pulling out and a nice breeze played across the overgrown grass. So I pulled out my Googlez & found an answer which gave me chills and made me a little sad on my insides — right where my heart is.
Dolly for Sue was completely emo.
This cutie pie baby doll, which said, “How do you do?” all polite and whatnot, had a psychological flaw. She was depressed. Brokenhearted at the notion of feeling unloved. Crushed after abandonment. If this annual holiday relic was produced today, she would at the very least be a cutter, and possibly suicidal. Dolly for Sue would write tragic poetry and wear all black instead of the sweet gingham dress she adorns. Black lipstick, cigarette hanging from her lip, fingernails chewed to the quick… I’m painting a picture here which I’m sure you can well imagine.
I wanted to think it was funny, really I did. A clinically depressed toy — REALLY? But instead of finding the humor, my overly sensitive heart ached for this symbol of rejection. Haven’t we all been kicked to the curb at one time or another? Riddled with the fear of being forever alone? Too scared to ever put it back out on the line? Shrunk into a smaller caricature of our true selves? Frozen into inaction? Who among us hasn’t known the pain of a tough breakup?
I did, I actually cried when I found out what was wrong with Dolly for Sue. And then I got pissed! WTF? She gets dumped, mourns her previous owner, and is dubbed a MISFIT? Seriously? That is just shit, man. I am amenable to being labeled a misfit for many reasons, but owning feelings is NOT one of them. My potty mouth, my irreverence, my quirky sense of humor, my strange anxieties and phobias… all misfit material. No problem. I own that. But I’ll be DAMNED if I let anyone call me a misfit just because I get sad when someone is mean to me. Fuck you!
You don’t belong on that island. Get on a boat and find a counselor, or for pity’s sake, go cry on your best friend’s shoulder. If your hormones are imbalanced and you find yourself unable to even get out of bed, seek a doctor who will help you find the right dosage of medication. These are all normal things. You aren’t a freak. You’re a regular, soft-hearted person experiencing a very normal range of emotions. It’s okay. You are loved. If you can think of no one else on this planet, know that I am your friend. I love you. Stay away from that shitty King Moonracer guy who made you feel like you are on par with a train that has fucking square wheels. Not even the same book, baby. You’re gonna be just fine.