I didn’t mean to become a person who collects weird little goblin toys. I’ve long hated Elf on the Shelf and its smug surveillance vibes. I’m more of a Skelly person—a full-sized plastic skeleton who lives in our house year-round. You can’t lose something that big. Though, to be fair, bones do keep falling off.

So no one was more surprised than me when I found myself in bed at 8 a.m., whispering emotional affirmations to my phone and ordering not one, but two, strange little monsters shipped from across the world. This is the story of how I fell down the Labubu hole—and why I might not want to climb back out.

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Day 1:

The first time I heard the word Labubu, it was from my daughter. She operates on a frequency somewhere between cryptic whimsy and deadpan prophecy. She and her friends were on the hunt for “Lafufus” (faux Labubus) at their neighborhood smoke shop. I wasn’t entirely sure what a Lafufu was, or if I should be concerned. But I was intrigued. She has a gift for spotting things that are both unsettling and beautiful—like a haunted Fabergé egg or a Victorian mourning brooch with teeth. This one got under my skin.

A few days later, I saw that one of my internet friends had a Labubu tattoo. Not a tiny, ironic one—this was a bold declaration of allegiance to something delightfully twisted. That’s when I realized there was more going on here than a cute vinyl toy. There was lore. There was menace. There was something I needed to understand.

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Day 4:

The algorithm caught the scent. My feed transformed into a shrine to the strange little bunny beast. Ads for Labubus. Labubu content. Tattooed Labubus. Pierced Labubus. Labubus I didn’t understand but deeply respected. There were Labubu events. Labubu meetups. Every scroll was a confrontation between my curiosity and my financial responsibility. I wasn’t just seeing them—I was being shown them.

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Day 5:

The algorithm and the horrific state of the world got the better of me. (Can you blame me? Everything’s on fire, and I needed one thing to look forward to.) I began hunting the internet for a Labubu of my own. I discovered this was not a casual undertaking. The Labubu economy is brutal. Secondary market prices range from “mild splurge” to “you should speak to someone.”

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Day 6:

Selected a reasonably priced Labubu that seemed… real? Possibly real? Prayed to the god of international shipping and… paused over the “purchase” button, thinking about how sad I would be if my blind pack contained an unlovable Labubu.

Made the very sensible choice to add a second Labubu to my order. A backup goblin, for emotional stability. I whispered a small promise to my phone—propped awkwardly on my chest while I lounged in bed at 8 a.m. on a weekday, draped in dread and weighted blanket shame: “Please be weird in a way I can love.” Successfully reassured and simultaneously tricked by retail genius, I clicked “purchase.”

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Day 7:

Announced to Instagram that I had ordered a Labubu. Felt both proud and sheepish. Until the interactions started. A few responded with “what is that” and “why.” One said, “Oh no. You’re becoming one of those people.” I didn’t know there were those people. I think I am one now.

One internet friend simply replied: “Welcome to the club.” No explanation. No judgment. Just a knowing nod across the void.

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Note from the author:

This post is part of a developing saga of aesthetic chaos, financial delusion, and quiet goblin yearning. No Labubus were harmed. Yet.

To be continued…

I’ve ordered them. I’ve told the internet. There’s no going back now.