The Bunny Delivery Disaster (Or: How I Ended Up in Customs Wrapped in a Blue Bow)

Let me explain.

It all started with one—one—glass of Prosecco and a reckless Amazon order made at exactly 2:47 AM. I was lonely. I was bored. And I was two episodes deep into a late-night romcom binge. I didn’t want a man. I didn’t want a one-night stand. No. I wanted… a honeybunny. A snuggle-beast. A fuzzy cuddle-creature with paws that wouldn’t ghost me.

So naturally, I typed in:

“Realistic emotional support bunny that gives kisses and says nice things in the morning.”

(Yes. I used quotation marks. Yes. I was serious.)

A click. A ding. And there it was:

“KISS-BUNNY: The Sensual Support Rabbit You Never Knew You Needed.”

I should’ve stopped there.

But the product description said, and I quote:

“Delivered discreetly, tied in one single blue satin ribbon. Unwrap with care. Do not make sudden moves. May nuzzle.”

SOLD.

Three to five business days later, I was woken up by a knock at the door and the sound of someone wheezing in high-pitched English. I opened the door to find a sweating postman holding what looked like a life-sized human-sized package shaped suspiciously like a… person doing yoga.

He dropped the box like it had whispered inappropriate things to him and ran off.

It was moving.

The box. It was wiggling.

I blinked. Twice.

On the front, written in glitter glue:

“Open me, sugarpump. I’m only wearing a bow where it counts.”

My brain short-circuited.

I dragged the suspiciously wiggling box into the living room like a person with zero self-preservation instincts and opened it.

There he was.

My honeybunny.

Wearing exactly one tiny blue satin bow placed strategically.

He winked.

I passed out for six seconds and came to just in time to hear him say:

“I warm cold feet. I snuggle without commitment. I purr in five languages. Brrr-rrr-raah.”

Reader, I kept him.

BUT. Life with Kiss-Bunny was not all flirty cuddles and tickly whiskers.

Oh no.

The man—sorry, bunny—had needs.

He demanded hot cocoa every night.

He chewed through three of my favorite bras ("instinct," he claimed).

He insisted I call him “Sugarfur McSnugglebutt” in public.

Things escalated dramatically during what I now call the Hot Wax Incident (don’t ask), which ended with my entire downstairs bathroom smelling like melted Easter.

Eventually, a neighbor called animal control.

They arrived, confused and ready to deal with a rogue rodent.

Instead, they found me—in a matching pink bow—cuddled in a blanket fort whispering sweet nothings to a grown man in fuzzy ears who kept repeating, “Bunny wants a forehead kiss!”

Customs got involved.

Apparently, I’d imported a sentient emotional support creature classified somewhere between a “performance artist” and “illegally bred intimacy mascot.”

There was paperwork. There were questions. There were photos taken that may or may not still exist on Reddit.

In the end, they let us go on one condition:

“Keep the bunny dressed in more than a ribbon in public.”

So now here we are.

Sugarfur sleeps on a heated pillow next to me.

He purrs when I rub his ears.

Sometimes he whispers, “Subi-dubi oap-oap,” in his sleep.

I still have no idea what that means.

But I’ve never been happier.

Because when the world gets cold, when life feels lonely, when your heart needs a giggle and your bed needs some extra weird fluff—

You don’t need a boyfriend.

You don’t need a rebound.

You need a blue-bowed bunny and a sense of humor.

Happy Easter, darling.

(We celebrate it every week now.)

Even when it snows in May.

P.S. Yes, I really ordered a bunny in a bow at 2:47 AM. No, I don’t regret it. Yes, he still hogs the blanket.