Delegation of responsibility

There’s a fluffy teddy/dog/something in the corner of my room.

Mr Fluffy doesn’t really like you.

I used to tell him everything, you see; I used to keep him up to date on how I was feeling, whether I needed a fluffy cuddle, or a fluffy shoulder to cry on.
I used to hurt him terribly and throw him around the room, and he always forgave me and told me I could do it again if I needed to.

Mr Fluffy wants to know what you have that he doesn’t.

You see, I’ve realised that I can treat you in exactly the same way I treat Mr Fluffy.
You’re always available for cuddles, even if they are rather fleshy and decidedly un-fluffy.
I know I can cry on you, because you, like Mr Fluffy, won’t judge me based on my tears.
I can even hurt you if I need to (and boy do I need to) because you’ll not only forgive, you’ll come right out and ask for it.

Mr Fluffy is a lovely friend, but…

When I give him a cuddle, there’s no warmth there, just fuzz.
When I cry on him, I am imagining words of endearment and reassurance.
When I throw him around, I know that he can take it.

You have something he doesn’t…

You’re alive.