Today in "All Aboard the Bipolar Express" I examine my emotional tie to a childhood literary character I always found troubling and problematic until I realized that character was myself.
I'm going to assume everyone here has heard of Winnie the Pooh, the animorphized teddy bear with a thing for honey who lives in the fictional Hundred Acre Wood. I'm sure if you didn't read the books, you were inundated with the cartoons on TV or your parents bought you Winnie the Pooh stuff because they liked Winnie the Pooh. But I never had that problem because even though I was painfully aware of who Winnie the Pooh was in book, cartoon and 300-count threadsheet form, I was not a fan. I think I was either too old when I finally discovered it or already cynical. (I've been a cynic for an extremely long time, becoming self-aware sometime around the age of 8 when I realized the Cold War was paying for my Barbie dolls as my dad worked in the aerospace industry.)