Let me tell you all about my longest running ADHD hyperfixation. I’ll set the scene. It all started innocently enough. One lazy Saturday afternoon, I was scrolling through the internet when I stumbled across a video of a guinea pig enthusiastically munching on a carrot. Its tiny teeth working overtime, those adorable squeaky noises—it was like joy compressed into the cutest audio file imaginable. That was the moment I fell in love—with guinea pigs.
They’re fluffy. They make noises like tiny detectives solving carrot-based mysteries. And they look like living potatoes. What’s not to love? It’s like they were designed in a lab specifically to be the ultimate serotonin boost.
Fast forward a few years, and my life is now fully saturated with guinea pig paraphernalia. It started small, like these things often do. A guinea pig-themed notebook here, a cute mug there. Then it snowballed. My desk has become a shrine to my guinea pig obsession. Sticky notes shaped like guinea pigs? Check. Guinea pig pens? Absolutely. Guinea pig cushion? Essential for long meetings.
Even my coworkers are in on it. They’ve fully embraced my hyperfixation and regularly contribute to my growing collection. Last Christmas, my Secret Santa gave me a cozy blanket covered in—you guessed it—guinea pigs. Birthdays bring guinea pig socks, guinea pig bags, even guinea pig earrings. I like to think of it as building my brand.
Let’s move away from work. Is my personal life more balanced? Less guinea pigs, more normal 34 year old woman things? No, absolutely not. My shelves are lined with figurines of guinea pigs. My phone case proudly features two snuggling guinea pigs. And my Pinterest boards are overflowing with cute guinea pig pics, guinea pig memes, and tips for caring for guinea pigs I don’t actually own.
And here’s the kicker: I’ve never had a guinea pig in my life.
This is where people tend to look at me like I’ve lost the plot. “How can you be so obsessed with guinea pigs if you’ve never owned one?” they ask, with genuine confusion. To which I reply, “How can you love Ryan Gosling if you’ve never met him?” Some things transcend firsthand experience.
It’s not that I haven’t thought about getting a guinea pig. Oh, I’ve thought about it. I’ve researched care tips, scoured adoption sites, and spent far too much time imagining the perfect names (Spud and Tater Tot are strong contenders). But then I remember that I already have two degus, Bubble and Squeak, who barely tolerate me as it is.
Bubble and Squeak are like that pair of grumpy uncles at a family gathering (they are girls, but still). They begrudgingly acknowledge my existence, but only because I bring the snacks. Our relationship is built on a mutual understanding: I feed them, they allow me to live. Adding a guinea pig—or, let’s face it, multiple guinea pigs—into this already tenuous situation could cause a rodent rebellion. Or worse, Bubble and Squeak might conspire with the newcomers to overthrow me altogether.
So for now, I live my guinea pig dream vicariously. I follow endless guinea pig accounts on Instagram, where I can marvel at their potato-y glory without any of the responsibility. I binge-watch YouTube videos of guinea pigs running through elaborate cardboard mazes, squeaking their little hearts out. And I continue to surround myself with guinea pig-themed everything because, honestly, it makes me happy.
One day, maybe I’ll take the plunge. I’ll adopt a pair of guinea pigs and finally live out my fluffy potato fantasies. But until then, Bubble and Squeak will just have to put up with me and my ever-growing collection of guinea pig memorabilia. And really, isn’t that the most ADHD thing ever? To be completely obsessed with something you don’t even own?
For now, I’ll just keep daydreaming about guinea pigs and their squeaky little detective noises. And if anyone asks why I’m so obsessed, I’ll simply say, “Because they’re the best potatoes in the world.”
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