Hammy the Hamster: My Inner Demon

Hammy.

Hammy.

Hammy is the belligerent, alcoholic hamster who runs on my brain-wheel. He claims his “PTSD vet” status excuses the violence, blackouts, and emotional abuse. (It’s especially offensive because he was never in the military. He’s an imaginary hamster in my brain.) Hammy suggested I compose my “blog prattling” in Word to avoid accidentally publishing “so much typographical puke.”

The folder with all my would-be posts is like a zombie cemetery. Hands of unexpressed ideas burst out of graves and try to wave me over. Meanwhile, at The Only Stupid Question, crickets and tumbleweeds…

I’m resuming writing directly into the blog. And I’m giving myself a time limit.

Hammy: “So what? Who cares? Why did you write that?”
Me: “Zip it, Hammy. I need to make excuses for my writing.”
Hammy: “You are a loser.”
Me: “I know.”
Hammy: “Grab me another bottle of whiskey.”
Me: “Okay.”

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