Signs You’ve Crossed the Funko Pop Rubicon and There’s No Coming Back

You’ve Replaced Important Mementos with Pop Displays
Grandma and grandpa’s wedding portrait is now flanked by 14 versions of Batman. There’s a solemn Obi-Wan where your dog’s urn used to be. You whisper “this is the way” every time someone questions your décor choices.

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You Describe Yourself as an Investor, But Only Own Toys
You call it “investing”. Your friends call it “a cry for help”. Your Funko portfolio is diversified across fandoms, from Marvel to The Golden Girls, but your Roth IRA has $17 and a coupon for Arby’s.

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You Can No Longer Emotionally Connect Without Shared Fandom
You’ve met someone smart, attractive, and kind. But they didn’t recognize your metallic Aang with Glider, so you ghosted them. You’re not shallow. You just know what you deserve. And that’s someone who understands the cultural significance of a 2018 San Diego Comic-Con exclusive.

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You Believe Your Pops Have Formed a Society and You’re Their Servant
You caught yourself apologizing to a box after dusting it too hard. You’ve rearranged your entire room to create “better sunlight” for your Harry Potter collection. You had a nightmare where your Pops unionized and demanded better quality teak shelves.

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You Genuinely Believe Plastic Has a Soul
You once threatened a friend with exile for unboxing a Chase variant. You cried harder when your Chrome Thanos fell off a shelf than when your ex left. Your Funko Pops are in mint condition. Your deepest, darkest fears revolve around water damage and possible mold.

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You’ve Experienced the Existential Dread of Owning Multiple Dwight Schrute Pops
At some point, you looked at your wall and thought, “Why are there seven Dwights?” And then you remembered: Target, Walmart, and Amazon sell them with slightly different shirt colors. Also, capitalism is a slow-rolling cosmic joke.

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Your Relationship with God Is Now Mediated Through Pops
You don’t pray anymore. You manifest. You light incense and beg the Funko overlords for a vaulted glow-in-the-dark Cthulhu. You’d sell your soul for a flocked Pikachu, if you hadn’t already traded it for a signed Post Malone Pop in 2020.

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You’ve Accepted That This Will Be Your Legacy
You used to dream of writing a novel, seeing Paris, and having children. Now you just hope someone, someday, finds your stash after the Great Collapse and thinks, “Damn, this guy really liked Rick and Morty”. Your tombstone will say Mint in Box. And it will glow in the dark.