Sometimes a Furby is just a Furby

Demonic eyes, much?

The Furby perched silently on the closet shelf. No longer was it begging me to play that weird game that never actually worked for me, or to pet it, or for God’s sake, just give it all my attention. Some of my attention. Any of my attention.

I could tell you that in staring at it I saw how what was important to a child didn’t matter to an adult. I could tell you that it was the grand metaphor of my life—that what I had once strived to be the best at (Furby care, natch), didn’t even warrant more than an annoyed look now that I was in college. That glance should’ve been poignant; it held all and simultaneously none of the mysteries of growing up. It should have occurred to me that it was a symbol that the old me was now gone, wrapped up in purses and clothes and cello lessons; not taking care of freaky toys that crave attention more than Lindsay Lohan.

But—I’m not that deep.

All I felt at that moment was a stab of annoyance that it was in my way, trying to make me feel guilty for not taking care of the inanimate (yet somewhat possessed) former toy of the year. The Furby sat, glaring at me, unblinking and unforgiving.

Then—it leaned forward. “Furrrrbyyyyyyyy,” it wailed.

Damn, I thought. How long do those batteries last?