(camels are too mainstream)
(pictured: my uncle Kevin)
I am a dromedary. I go for days, weeks even, without sustenance, crossing the oft-fatal desert of living alone for the first time. It’s not that there isn’t food and water available – there are many watering holes, oases even on my path – but I rarely find them, too often distracted by the rabbit hole of some footprints in front of me, some sky writing that might actually be a clickbait title, and a copy of Jim Lindberg’s Punk Rock Dad dangled on a string just ahead of me.
But every now and then, I am forced to stop. Sporadically, a TV pokes its antennae out of the sand, and The Great British Bake-Off is playing, Mel and Sue bouncing around their unusually sandless enclosure like baby dromedaries. And when I stop, other dromedaries give me food, until my hump is bloated, I struggle to walk, but at least I’ll survive until next week.
When I’ll do it all again.
This is, indeed, my way of communicating that I’m overstuffed with my parents’ food, found an amusing picture of a dromedary online, and am probably high to the point of incoherency all at once.