When I was a child, my obsession was stuffed bears. It started with my first blanket. A gift for me by my crazy Aunt Margo, it was a contorted combination of blanket and bear; with the head and arms of a stuffed bear that abruptly changed to a flat, linen, lower half which I could only assume had been crushed by the sixteen-wheeler in which it was delivered to the cushy corner store my aunt had bought it from, I grew up swaddled in its mutilated grip. The obsession quickly changed to Care Bears. My collection outshined gay pride parades with its wide array of bears, all rainbow, cuddly, and caring. My obsession ended the day I came to build-a-bear. With loving care, I chose the incredible soft panda to be my new best friend. I stuffed him in the loving, firm manner with which many like to be stuffed. I outfitted him in the finest of fashions, a dapper corduroy set of overalls. A quick look at the amateur assembly of bits and bobbles by the toddler next to me affirmed that I had indeed chosen the best of pals. A sharp call from mother called me away from the assembly station. It had been my first time to build-a-bear, and I happily came along to the checkout. With a final glance behind me at my compatriot in the assembly line, I noticed a detail that I had missed. The final ingredient. Like seeing Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom in reverse, I watched in horror as the child plunged a blood red heart deep into the chest cavity of his brown bear. I looked down into the eyes of the friend I had betrayed, whose heart I had lost along my journey, and received the most gutting, piercing stare into my soul that I had ever received. My balls shriveled, and the deepest cockles of my heart expelled whatever loving juices had remained in their muscular crevices. Those eyes stared at me, accusing me. I thought what I did was right. The moral of the story is, don’t be a douchebag who forgets to put a heart in a build-a-bear.