Hamsters and Charlatans

Hamsters and Charlatans

I’m not sure what I consider worse: To be a charlatan or to be an uncelebrated charlatan. Where is the silver lining of being a vociferous fraud if no one takes notice but the shamster?

So what if shamster isn’t a word! It can be! It can be a word I will soon copyright for my forthcoming faux pet line, robotic rodentia, which provide all the entertainment of those two dollar household cheek-stuffers sans the urine-soaked cedar and incessant dooting.

You know you only clean the poor thing’s cage when your mom has HAD IT UP TO HERE! I’m so sorry, Fuzzy! You were a good pet! You didn’t deserve to wallow in your own fur-matted filth. I was young and foolish! And lazy. And probably playing my Super Nintendo. And there you were treadmilling in your own wee… cheeping out teensy cries for help.

Mom said you died of a heart attack. But I know. I know. You were a vegan! Vegans don’t have heart attacks!

No…

You choked on my neglect.

(sobs)

“What the hell am I talking about?” I shout at my screen as my fingers rebel against my pleas for lucidity. This blog has diverted wildly from the intended point! What was I getting at? Why am I so upset that childhood traumas are conjured?

Oh, yes.

I remember.

To my shame.

(knuckle biting emoji)

Charlatans.

I am that charlatan(s) of which I speak. That fraud. That… shamster.

I…

… have purchased a smartphone.

(sobs)

Oh, Fuzzy! I was so delightfully peculiar with my flip phone. People gasped. They marveled. Fuzzy, by God… they aspired.

Or so my pretentious little acorn perceived. So I wrote lofty essays on the virtues of giving up our handheld mindsuckers. Of all the time I gained back. Skipping with toddlers through fields of daisies and lollipops and Renoirian picnics.

All an aggravating invitation to BE better when in my heart I longed for two and a half long years to have my precious Angry Birds again. To stare up at that glowing screen in the damp darkness of my bedroom and chuckle at savage political gif!

Well, here I am. I’ve owned the blasted thing for two days. I’m not addicted.

Yet.

Full disclosure: I got it for work. My day job is healthcare recruiting and a recent business trip to Chicago proved my ol’ cup and string wasn’t cutting it anymore.

I’ll have to find some other way to appear eccentric.

Maybe I’ll get a hamster and put a little beret on him.

Tuning the Ear

Tuning the Ear

Art and Artist

Art and Artist