A Cottonball that Reminisces and Thinks Freud Is a Fraud

As a little girl, I used to love cotton. I used to play with it as it was a favorite toy. More specifically, I used to benefit from it by keeping it in my mouth. So very undisclosed the beneficial part seemed to be. But as I ate the cotton I seemed to have profited something out of it. I don’t remember it so vividly. I was around five when this habit had begun. It started with receiving gifts from my mother and father. They were gift boxes that were wrapped and held in puffy and swollen little toy animals. My first one was a bunny, naturally. It was indeed swollen seeing that its size was not normal. It could barely fit in the box. I didn’t care. There were many things in my life that held exaggeration very well. Held it so well in fact it almost seemed like my life loved it. It all seemed to fit with me. The bunny had one lanky ear and brown buttons for eyes. It also squealed everytime I held and squeezed it. For the longest time, I thought rabbits made high pitched squealing sounds. Not until later on did I find out that rabbits didn’t make much sound from an educational kids TV show. Cows went moo, cats went meow and pigs went oink but rabbits went nothing and nowhere, but they multiplied popping out of nowhere ever so quickly. Imagine a rabbit that squealed… Eeeep. That’s how my bunny sounded.

My bunny gift was very soft. I knew there was also more to it because bunnies weren’t meant to be that big. I was also a very bratty child. After having played with it for more than a year, I decided to rip it open. I wasn’t violent, I remember using scissors and slowly cutting a small line into it just to see. And then I ripped it open. My desecrated bunny was forcefully stuffed with beautiful white puffy cotton. As I think about it now, it was an unsettling but beautiful sight. My first reaction was to pull the cotton out and to play with it between my fingers. This stuff was what made my bunny excessively large. This stuff was so pretty. I’m not one to enjoy white, the absence of color, at all unless it is on cotton or on pale skin. I couldn’t imagine cotton being colored. The first thing I had done with the cotton was picking it up and squishing it in my palms. It was as if I was keeping a cloud captive in my hands. It felt wonderful because I knew I couldn’t really have a cloud in my hand no matter how much I wanted one. I also knew I’d be disappointed because cloud is nothing but a visible mass of water and I had enough water being forced down my throat by my mother. She only wanted what was best for me. She wanted a healthy hydrated child.

As I played with the cotton between my fingers, I thought to myself about how it would feel in my mouth and how it would taste. I immediately put it in my mouth. Ever since then, I started to love to chew on cotton. Now I am a twenty-one year old who’s very soul is wedged down the middle of a little white pufferball, cottonball. I am cotton incarnate. I am a cottonball that does nothing but sit and reminisce about everytime it has used and abused cotton when I was a person that belonged to a family. I wonder if this is payback. I think about all the other things I could have probably reincarnated to. I have put so many other things in my mouth as a child. Children do that. Was that a Freudian Slip? I’ll bet Sigmund Freud would have probably loved to dig his dirty fingers into what I just said. I won’t give him the benefit of the doubt. Children who put things in their mouths and are fixated on this don’t necessarily become smokers or compulsive eaters. It just doesn’t work that way. They become cottonballs. His psychosexual analysis lied to me. Liar.