Soliloquies Anthology 30.1

By Cate Murphy

To you, 

I write this not with affection, but with a slow, simmering contempt that has grown within me, unnoticed until it became impossible to ignore. You are a constant source of irritation in every quiet room, the disruptive element in every attempt at comfort. I have made every effort to disregard your presence, to treat you as a shadow unworthy of attention. Yet, like shadows left unchecked, you have repeatedly caused me to stumble. Your intrusions become increasingly conspicuous, each word uttered about you further testing the limits of my patience. Despite my efforts to endure, to hope that you will eventually fade away, you remain ever present. 

You present yourself with unfounded confidence, a display of empty gestures and exaggerated promises, yet beneath this facade lies only self-importance. The incessant hum of your vanity is inescapable, overwhelming my thoughts. Your words are unpalatable, your smile grating and persistent. You claim to achieve great feats, yet your actions are insignificant and marked by arrogance. You move through the lives of others as if the world exists solely for your performance, and each display, though ultimately empty, still demands attention and endurance.

I resent the way your name comes up in every conversation like a constant source of discomfort, impossible to ignore. I resent your unwarranted confidence, your unearned successes, and your tendency to disguise cruelty as charm. You transform ordinary days into challenges of patience. Despite my efforts, I cannot avoid comparing myself to the disruption you represent, nor can I stop noting the many reasons for my aversion. I’ve often longed to command a room with my presence the way yours does, and so maybe this is all said with envy. Perhaps it is my own vanity that longs to be commented on and praised incessantly the way yours is. But the way you possess a remarkable ability to turn simplicity into frustration, to create disorder from calm, and to persuade others–and at times, even myself–of your significance stops me from looking inward. 

You stand barely knee-high, yet your presence seems to loom, stretching upward until it brushes the ceiling. Your head, oversized and bulbous like a bruise that refuses to fade, tilts with a question or a craving. Your skin is matte and rubbery, the shade of ancient bone buried in wet soil, mottled as if secrets are pressing to break through. But it is your eyes that unsettle most. Huge, glassy orbs swallow your face, catching the light but never any warmth. They never quite align, so your gaze is restless; one eye pins me while the other wanders, tracking something just out of sight behind me. Your pupils are pools of ink, so deep they seem less like eyes and more like doorways into a bottomless dark. Your grin carves your face open, stretching impossibly wide. Too many blunt teeth crowd together, like gravestones jostling for space in a forgotten graveyard. Their dullness is more disturbing than fangs; they seem built for grinding, not tearing. The smile is fixed, unwavering, even as your eyes narrow with a glimmer of amusement. Your body is squat and stunted, limbs bowed, arms hanging just a bit too long for your size. Your hands finish in soft, rounded fingers that curl inward, always reaching for something unseen. The joints seem fused, as if you were poured into existence rather than born. Up close, you carry a scent that is almost imagined: sweet and plasticky at first, then turning sour, like a toy left to molder in a wet basement. There is a creeping suspicion that if I looked away, even for a heartbeat, you would move—just enough to make me doubt what I saw. 

And so, this is my confession and record: your name will always be associated with bitterness for me. I will remember your interference and your self-satisfaction, and I won’t forgive the ease with which you unnerve. I dislike you, not out of necessity, but because circumstances force our continued interaction. Familiarity, in this case, hasn’t softened anything; it has clarified every small friction. Given distance, nothing would have formed at all. It is only through persistence that my feelings have taken shape. I will endure this, using it as a means to strengthen and prepare myself for a world that too often includes individuals like you. 

You are a minor tyrant, not in the historical sense, but through the personal battles you cause. I know I cannot overcome your influence or diminish your presence, but I can remember and articulate my contempt, ensuring it endures beyond you. I close this letter without hope, reconciliation, or tenderness, but with a clear and unwavering declaration: I hate you, Labubus. So much. So fucking much.

Take this as the testament it is: I won’t forget you, how could I? You’re everywhere, on every street corner and every keychain. I will carry the memory of your arrogance, your empty gestures, your self-satisfied smirks like a talisman of vigilance. I will remember the vexation you cause, the sharp, irritable knots you leave in my chest, and I will store it all, carefully, meticulously, as evidence of the chaos you created. And in the quiet moments, when your godawful name comes unbidden to my lips, it will taste as a bitter reminder of the contempt I carry and the careful, measured endurance I practice in your orbit.

 – Cate