I have a bodyless labubu dangling from my bag, a counterfeit head that detached itself immediately on exit from its plastic wrapper womb maybe a year ago.
On that day I had watched videos about how labubus were a harrowing consumerist icon in a way that seemed mostly undistinct from other toys and trinkets, and I became gleeful and insane at the prospect of opening up my own false labube.
Her head accompanies me and bobs wildly as I walk, through warm parks with a thousand dogs, to the restaurant where I had fish and beer as advertised on an angler fish themed sandwich board (though my fish of choice was tuna). She is a special freak, speeding through the world. Seeing it all with those maniacal labubu eyes.
The expression of the labubu is her greatest asset. One eternal, angry gaze. Today, she watched me slap ketchup out of a glass bottle expertly. No squeeze, just sharp slaps on the flat bottom. I felt powerful in that moment. And the labubu head surely felt it.
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