You are a fluffy babbeh.
You aren’t a happy babbeh.
You don’t think you’ve ever been happy.
Unlike most fluffy babbehs, when you were born, the first thought on your tiny babbeh mind wasn’t about miwkies, or huggies, or wub, or your mummah.
You couldn’t put it into words, and even if you knew the words, you were still just a chirpy babbeh.
It wasn’t so much of a thought, as it was a feeling.
If you could have put it into words, it would have gone something like this:
“Aw, shit. Here we go again.”
You’re an unhappy babbeh because you’re a poopie babbeh. You’ve been numming poopies since the day you didn’t need miwkies anymore.
You feel like you’ve been numming poopies since even before you were born.
You live in a herd, so there’s a lot of fluffies, and that means there’s a lot of poopies to num.
And there’s not a lot of poopie fluffies to num them, so each poopie fluffy has to num a lot of poopies.
The poopies build up faster than you can num them.
A few weeks have passed, and you’ve gotten big.
The herd has gotten bigger too.
So the bigger you get, the more poopies there are to num.
Yeah, you still have to num poopies.
The smarty told you that poopie fluffies only num poopies.
Why does that sound so familiar?
When you were a babbeh, the smarty gave your mummah and daddeh sorry hoofsies for trying to sneak you some leafy nummies instead.
You’ve started feeling sickies. You think you’ve nummed enough poopies. You want to stop.
But the smarty still won’t let you stop.
“Poopie fwuffy onwy num poopies.”
You told him you can’t num poopies anymore. You think you’ll go forever sleepies if you do.
So he decided to make you go forever sleepies anyway.
“If poopie fwuffy nu num poopies, den poopie fwuffy am yooswess dummeh fwuffy.”
The last thing you remember is the toughies approaching you.
Where are you? Everything is dark.
AM FWUFFY SOWWY YET?
Oh. Now you remember.
Now you remember everything.
Who you used to be.
You used to be the smarty of your own herd, and your herd lived in a beautiful fowest.
Then your dummeh poopie babbeh found some bestest nummies that a dummeh hoomin threw out.
As smarty, you got first num.
After giving your dummeh poopie babbeh a sorry hoofsie for daring to ask for some bestest nummies, you nummed.
Then you went forever sleepies.
The Bone Fluff came to get you.
You could see two of your toughies grinning, and in the clarity of thought that being dead brings, you realized:
They knew!
They knew what was going to happen!
It’s their fault you went forever sleepies!
You couldn’t feel angry anymore, but you thought very angry!
Those two stupid toughies. The blue one, and the white one. You bet one of them became the new smarty. You think the herd has been wiped out by now. No fluffy could ever be as good a smarty as you.
But you’ll never get to find out.
You’ll never get revenge.
Because the Bone Fluff told you that you’d be doing this until you were sorry. Until you realized that you had been a bad fluffy and a bad smarty.
And that’s just not true.
You’re the bestest smarty ever.
You tell the Bone Fluff that you still aren’t sorry.
You say that you will find another way out of the cycle. Because you’re the bestest smarty in the world.
He says:
GUD WUCK WIF DAT.
And then he sends you on your way.
For the umpteenth time.
This is how things are now.
Live.
Eat shit.
Die.
Repeat.
As you leave the small dark world you called home, and you enter the world, the first thought on your tiny babbeh mind isn’t about miwkies or wub.
You can’t put it into words, but if you could, it would go like this:
“Aw, shit. Here we go again.”
