Confession: I’m an Adult and Sometimes I Still Sleep with Stuffed Animals

My favorite

This little guy was a present to myself when I went to Disneyland for the first time. I was 17. On the flight back, I clung to him like a 5-year-old with a security blanket through the airport. Barely having slept the night before, I was tired and disheveled; sans makeup with my hair lazily scrunched into a ponytail and wearing the most comfortable clothes I owned, I probably looked no older than 13, and absolutely everyone I encountered treated me as such, but I didn’t care. He was cute and also my makeshift pillow.
Confession time: I’m an adult, and I sometimes still sleep with stuffed animals.

That might not be such a shocker, considering what my room looks like

Four years later, I received a giant panda pillow pet as part of a gift for graduating college. Sometimes, when the boyfriend is snoring too loudly, I drag the weird, flat panda out from his home under the bed and cuddle him fervidly. Or use him to shield my poor ears.
I guess I should be embarrassed, but my lack of shame runs deep. And anyway, the only person who has to deal with my childish tendencies is my boyfriend, and he doesn’t seem to mind as long as I don’t touch his stuff. Not to mention, we used to hang out in my childhood room, so he’s seen how bad it can get. (Hint: pretty bad.)
I hoarded stuffed animals as child. I allowed them to share my bed space if they promised not to be total hogs, and in return, they made me feel safe. Even when they started looking like haggard thrift-store rejects, I held onto them for sentimental reasons. The Velveteen Rabbit and Toy Story so did not help with this.
As I grew older, I did a tremendously awful job at keeping my room organized and tossing out things I had outgrown (toys, notes, silly school projects, you name it). Even when the desire to appear more mature compelled me to tear down the magazine cutouts of cute boys from my walls, I was happily complacent with my bed warmers. I didn’t need them, they were simply there and I either ignored them or forgot they existed, so they sat in limbo on my bed or smooshed in between the mattress and the wall until I remembered to donate them.
I like to think that my fondness for plushies is not entirely unreasonable or immature. Moving has scattered by collection for the most part. I’m not actively seeking additions, but that all depends on how many drinks I’ve had and if I wound up tipsy in the ADORBZ section of Barnes & Noble.

I am too broke for this temptation

Sure, I’ve heard derisive comments in passing—Internet comments and things of that nature—to suggest that this behavior is by-and-large frowned upon, but I’ve never once had a potential love interest deride me for wanting to fall asleep with a pillow pet. So what do you think? Is it weird, or do you do it, too?