Because I'm sick.
Because the bronchial infection may kill me at any moment.
Because I may go throw myself under a bus if it doesn't kill me, just so I can stop hacking, coughing, and generally wondering how much liquid can drain from a person's nose, eyes, throat, and chest before said person shrivels up like a prune.
I am going to reveal a deep, dark secret.
Are you ready?
Yes, that's right. I still sleep with a stuffed bear.
His name is Charlie.
He traveled to Australia as part of my carry-on luggage because I was afraid to check him. He's been covered in tears and snot and probably a little blood in his time. He used to let me dress him up like a girl (Sorry, Charlie.) He's survived the washing machine.
My mother once washed him and then hung him outside by his neck to dry. When I saw, I had a minor meltdown.
And he's never ever ever never ever never never never allowed to fall apart.