"Goddamnit!" I think for the second time today. And then for the second time today I think "No no no bad STOP! You're a teddy bear, for crying out loud, a teddy bear named Muffins! You're not even allowed to know what that words means, much less use it!"

And yet I do know what the word means and I do use it, and that's because teddy bears are owned by little kids and little kids always grow up. They forget about their teddy bears like me, they forget to talk to them and love them and mind them, but that doesn't mean that those teddy bears like me just slip away that easily. Nope, just because the magic is lost doesn't mean that it's gone, too. So my owner, Stevie, when she grew up and learned words like "goddamnit", so did I.

Stevie was a good owner (the operative word there being was). Sure, in all actuality she was also a spoiled little brat, but I was so naive back when I was her best friend, when my fur was fluffier and my seams were tighter. I was so forgiving back then.

And I was so desperate to be loved that I would happily put up with anything. It's actually kind of ironic (I like that word— apparently Stevie's tenth grade English teacher did too, because I picked it up from her frantic mutterings as she'd struggle to bang out essay after essay), how that wish was fulfilled in more ways than one. … What I mean by that is that when she was six years old, Stevie plunged me into a fundamentally baseless marriage with a plastic iguana named Bob. I willingly accepted it because I was just so eager to please her— of course, I also willingly accepted it because I am a stuffed toy incapable of actually exercising my own volition, but still.

Anyway, I've become both wise and wizened now, but that didn't stop Stevie from abandoning me. (And subsequently, me from abandoning my long-suffering plastic husband. Sorry, Bob.) That was the first time I said goddamnit today.

Some of Stevie's extended family had come over, and that included her little cousin Joe. He was five years old, the age Stevie had been when she'd first gotten me, and I'd seen him before. We'd never met personally— Stevie's seventeen now and she stopped taking me seriously as a companion before Joe was even born— but I knew enough about the kid to know that I did not like him. So when he barged (rather unceremoniously, might I add) into her room, I cringed from atop the shelf to which I'd been relegated.

"Jesus Christ, did you ever learn to knock?" shrieked Stevie, who had been curled up on her bed with a pair of pink pajama pants, a flimsy tank top, and a phone full of texts from a boy. "I already came down and did the hellos before, what more could you possibly want?"

Joe just stuck his tongue out obnoxiously. "Yoooooou're doing something seeeeeecret," he sang, full of a nagging conspiratorial glee.

"Damn straight I am!" sputtered Stevie indignantly. "So can't you just leave me alone and go back to the swamp or wherever it is you came from?"

"What's in it for me?" giggled Joe sinisterly. I swear I heard Stevie hiss. She scanned her eyes across the room with frustration. For the first time in years, her gaze landed squarely on me and for a second I was actually excited— then I realized where this had to be going and I felt nothing but cold hard dread.

"How about this!" announced Stevie, petulantly triumphant. "You can have that bear over there if you just get the hell away from me, alright?"

"Deal!" cackled Joe immediately. With a haughty harrumph, Stevie plucked me by a threadbare ear and deigned to toss me right into Joe's chest.

"Now scram!" She punctuated the action with a scream.

And Joe did, so I did too, still hanging in his slimy grip by that poor little ear.

Barreling down the stairs so fast I thought he might (hopefully) fall and break an arm, he shot into the living room, which contained his prim mom and dad.

"Well, thank you for having us over, but we'd really better be going now," Mrs. Joe was drawling. "You know Bruno, our new puppy, he's been waiting in the car this whole time and I think I have to take him for a walk."

Mrs. Stevie nodded with faux sympathy— this stuffy old lady was her own sister and even she wanted her out of here.

Mr. and Mrs. and Joe then made their way to the car, me in tow. After a few awful minutes of driving, drivel and dog drool ("Sweetie, wherever did you get that… toy from?"), we'd finally made it to the park. I was counting my blessings to be in a place where playful chatter might drown out Mrs. Joe's horrible whine.

Mr. Joe wrenched Bruno the gawky Mastiff pup into leash position as Mrs. and Joe hopped snootily from the car and began to stroll through the park. ("I have to take him for a walk" my furry little ass.) As the bratty little boy toted me around, he pulled me by the ear so hard that it popped right off. Being made of stuffing and thread, I didn't feel any pain, but I did plop directly into a puddle of mud.

Joe bent down to pick me up again but his mother grabbed him by the hand and jerked him back.

"Ah, dear!" she started. "Why don't we just… leave that there, mmhm? You already have so many toys at home and that one is such a dreadfully ratty old thing anyway…"

I don't know what I expected Joe to do, but he complacently obeyed, leaping away with such careless abandon that I wondered if he'd ever even been glad to adopt me at all.

And that left me where I am now, muddy and tattered and alone. Once I'd have wished for a happy ending, but when Stevie moved on from fairy tales so did I. I'm not going to pretend like I'll be picked up by some kindly but obviously lacking-in-the-common-sense-department child and transported to a new life of fantasy and bliss where I'll be loved and rejuvenated and whole again. I've had a long, successful life and it's really about time that it's ended. I'm happy for what I've had, but feel no urgent need to ask for more. It's been so long since I've been important, anyway.

So I lay here wallowing, waiting, and the end comes. It has four paws and a mouthful of slobber. Bruno and Mr. Joe have caught up, and apparently the proud pop is so put out by his big bundle of love that the prospect of a new chew toy to distract the demon-dog seems like a godsend.

Before the Mastiff's jaws clamp down on me, I think "I wonder what's going to happen to Bob."

And then I feel them and for the last time I think "Goddamnit!"