The Plushie Revelation of @John Price
John Price, standing proudly (if only at 5’2”), was an enigmatic figure on the HFBoards Useless Thread. Known for his encyclopedic knowledge of hockey stats and his passionate discussions about plushies, John’s posts had a peculiar charm. But beneath his lighthearted musings about his favorite stuffed penguin, Mr. Waddles, lay a deeper truth he had yet to confront.
One Friday night, John found himself at his usual spot in a dimly lit bar. His lap was occupied, as always, by his latest plushie acquisition, a dapper little bear named Sir Fluffington. John adjusted the bear’s bowtie as he sipped his Sprite with a splash of grenadine, content in his cozy bubble.
His quiet evening was interrupted by a loud laugh from the bar. Turning his head, John noticed a sharply dressed man watching him with amused disdain. The man was none other than Barney Stinson, infamous for his flashy suits and louder-than-life personality.
“Hey, you!” Barney called out, pointing at the bear. “Is this your wingman? Because I’ve seen some bad attempts, but this? This is
legendary.”
John’s cheeks flushed crimson as he clutched Sir Fluffington closer. “It’s not like that,” he muttered. “You wouldn’t understand.”
Barney smirked, sliding off his barstool and swaggering over. “Oh, I understand plenty,” he said. “You’re hiding behind the fluff. The bears, the penguins—they’re your security blanket because you’re too scared to deal with the real thing. Women.”
John froze, Barney’s words cutting deeper than he expected. “That’s not true,” he protested weakly. But even as he said it, he felt a pang of recognition.
Barney leaned in, voice dripping with mock sincerity. “Listen, my pocket-sized friend, you’re substituting plush for passion. They’re a stand-in for your fear of rejection. The sooner you accept it, the sooner you can—wait for it—
man up and do something about it.”
John stormed out of the bar, cheeks burning with humiliation. That night, he sat among his plushie collection, Barney’s words echoing in his mind. As much as he hated to admit it, there was truth in what the man had said.
Determined to change, John decided to take Barney’s advice. Over the next few weeks, he pushed himself out of his comfort zone. He left his plushies at home and joined a book club, attended social events, and even tried his hand at online dating.
But reality hit hard. At the book club, his awkwardness made conversations stilted. At social events, his attempts at small talk fizzled, leaving him standing alone by the snack table. Online, his messages went unanswered or, worse, were met with polite rejections.
On one particularly crushing evening, John mustered the courage to approach a woman at a local coffee shop. She seemed friendly enough, and for a brief moment, he thought he was doing well. But then she glanced at her phone, smiled awkwardly, and made an excuse to leave.
Deflated, John returned home to his apartment. He sat on his couch, staring at his plushies arranged in neat rows on the shelves. They seemed to stare back at him, silently offering the comfort he couldn’t find elsewhere.
He picked up Mr. Waddles and hugged the penguin tightly, his chest heavy with the weight of failure. “At least you guys don’t reject me,” he murmured, forcing a sad smile.
And so, life continued. John still ventured out occasionally, still tried to connect, but rejection became a familiar companion. Each time he returned home, the plushies were there, waiting, their unchanging presence a bittersweet balm for his wounded pride.
Barney Stinson likely forgot about the encounter entirely. For John, though, it became a story he replayed in his mind—both a catalyst for change and a reminder of its futility. While he could never bring himself to truly abandon his plushies, he began to understand that their soft embrace was no substitute for the warmth he longed for but couldn’t quite reach.
At least she is no longer in pain.
@End of Line
