Blankets don’t have souls. Teddy bears and other assorted stuffed childhood companions on the other hand, do have souls. Much more so than many people I suspect. Mr. B? Soul (and cataracts). Caiden's Bunny? Soul. Old Blue? No soul. My broke ass bear with replacement eyes in the form of third-hand dime store flower shaped flat buttons and a broken music box in his ass? Big swinging dick of a soul. Calvin had Hobbes. Hobbes, now that stuffed terror of a tiger had soul oozing out of his Made in China stitched butt. There is no denying it, the cat knew where it was at. Linus? Linus had a blanket. Linus was a righteous, thoughtful dude with quite the soul himself. You could always count on him to maintain childhood hope and innocence while Rome burned or adults said their “whah-whaah, bwomp-whah-whah” in their very best trombonic blaat. But the blanket? It was a rag, man. No. Soul. You don’t interact with a blanket. You can’t look into a blanket’s plastic unblinking eyes and just know that everything is going to be alright. A blanket won’t stand guard and keep the dogs of war at bay, closet monsters locked tightly away or the thing under the bed from grabbing anything that dangles into its domain. Sure, a blanket might make a nice fort to hide in with your own personal Hobbes, but that blanket’s got no more soul than a couch cushion or some Spiderman Underoos, Jack. In fact I’m fairly certain blankets have tried to strangle me a time or two. I know you’ve woken up to those tendrils inching their way around your neck all the while constricting your legs in a fuzzy Vellux choke hold. I think that the lack of soul doesn’t necessarily make them evil, they just want you to cough up some small part of your soul so they can be like your Hobbes. They’ve seen what you’ve imparted into your plush little confidant and want to taste of it, if only for a moment. But blankets? Nah, man. Blankets got no soul.