Reality doesn't care

So there I was, staring at a dead hamster on my kitchen counter. Barry, named ironically because who the hell names a hamster Barry, was lying there like some tragic fluffball casualty. The little wheel in his cage sat motionless, an existential symbol of futility. His once lively beady eyes were now a dull black void—kind of poetic if you think about it, but mostly just gross.

The disappointment hit me in waves. Not because Barry was dead, but because it wasn’t supposed to happen this way. You think pets are supposed to go peacefully in their sleep, not keel over mid-spin on a Tuesday night. You get this mental image of their last moments as serene and meaningful, but reality is a nihilistic jerk who doesn’t care about your fantasies. Barry’s final act? Falling off the wheel like a tragicomic Monty Python skit.

I mean, I had plans for this hamster. Not big plans, obviously—he’s a hamster. But you expect the little bastard to at least fulfill his end of the unspoken pet-owner covert contract: live for two years, tops, and maybe give me some wholesome Instagram content along the way. Instead, he decided to shuffle off this mortal coil after a grand total of seven months. What a quitter.

And there’s the rub, isn’t it? The gap between expectations and reality. That’s where all the misery festers. I had this “idea” that Barry would live long enough for me to pawn him off on a neighbor while I went on a guilt-free vacation. Instead, he’s turned into a tiny, stiff emblem of my own flawed assumptions.

You want to know why you’re sad or disappointed or pissed off most of the time? It’s not because life is hard or people are cruel or your job sucks. It’s because your brain can’t stop telling itself stories about how things “should” be. Like, Barry should have lived longer. My ex should have texted me back. The barista should have known I wanted almond milk without me having to say it. But reality? Reality’s just standing there like, “I never said any of that, dude.”