This is George. I don't know when I originally got George, or who gave him to me but he's been a part of my life almost as long as I can remember. His little French knot eyes are unraveling, most of the paint on him (like his nose and toes and fingers) is gone, his whiskers have been replaced at least once and he has a sort of well worn and grimy look to him that comes from being a kid's constant companion, the sort that can't be washed away.
George went with me to my first day of school, my first sleepover, every trip to my grandparents' and was one of the first things I picked up from my parents' house when I moved to my first apartment. He's been soaked in tears, flown in giddy circles in my hands and knows all of my secrets.
He no longer has a place on my bed right by my face but I don't think I could ever really and truly put away childish things if it meant that I couldn't have George. As I get older I'm trying to be less sentimental and to accumulate less things and give more away, but George will never be on that list.
As for the actual painting, it's pretty crap. Enough that I want to redo it when I'm a little more clear headed, and a little less full of allergens and rhinovirus. At least enough that I don't get distracted half through erasing my pencil lines before starting the water color.
If anyone deserves actual effort, it's probably George.
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