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Wednesday: [w] The Saddest Thing

weds: "Lie-Bot, what is the saddest thing?"
  "Your most recent blog entry, Phillippe."
eric: Yeah, what is the *deal* with Phillippe lately?
weds: I have no idea. He is becoming increasingly fragile.

My command of stuffed otter child psychology is fairly limited. That said, I'm worried about Achewood's Phillippe. Ever since his bid for the American Presidency fell flat, the stars have turned even harder against him. I don't think he's going to come out well in the long run if this keeps up.

His living situation is already precarious. I'm not sure what his mother is thinking, housing him with such as Lyle; is it because, having no father available, she believes such as Lyle to be a suitable replacement? Chris is clearly now quite distracted. Teodor is arguably too forthright and, simultaneously, insufficently communicative. And it's not like Cornelius hears him out when something goes wrong.

(Then again, I've never entirely been sure what she's thinking. Her involvement with his life is restricted largely to phone calls and bizarre presents. The presents are everything from self-consciously affirming to dumbfoundingly outre. One wonders if, before she left him with these odd examples of male role models, she would read him M. Scott Peck before bed.)

I worry for little Phillippe. Everything, lately, seems to end up with him in tears. He didn't mean to put lubricant on food. He didn't mean to find Teodor's Fleshlight while making the bed. He didn't mean to make Click Bot jump up and brand him with obscenity. He did not mean to get in Trouble. And he really, really thought he was doing the right thing when he charted Baby Onstad's gas emission patterns. Phillippe only means to help. And, lately, he's just running and sobbing, sobbing and running, and occasionally ashamed of himself into the bargain.

And speaking to himself, not like a kid, but like a support group leader.

I'm starting to wonder if Phillippe will turn out like Pat, rather than the terse, plump gamer we caught a glimpse of once. It seems like the logical thing to happen: strangely traumatised once too many times, rejected again and again by Ultra Peanut, embittered by failure, the self-consciously affirmations by which he parents himself will collapse in upon him. Some day, Phillippe will be dragged into the street by the shards of a demonic banjo, and a squirrel will vomit upon him. And, in his happy place, he will talk to Moby about the pistachio nuts in his Walk-Around Butt.

And Moby will chase him out of the paper store.

Then again, I know nothing of stuffed cartoon otter child psychology. No one ever tells me anything.

Posted by Wednesday Burns-White at May 2, 2005 11:32 AM

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