I’m petsitting a fish. Well, technically my roommate is petsitting the fish, but she’s been gone every weekend for the last month, so on weekends and holidays, Mojo’s care falls to me. I’m not big on fish, and this arrangement makes me feel like a divorced parent with an embarrassingly ugly child.
I’m pretty sure my dislike for all things scaly stems from a scarring high school experience with a betta fish named Stu Jorge. I had him for all of 24 hours before he died in the middle of the 2007 Oscars, probably due to the intense hatred we shared for Leonardo DiCaprio. In our brief time together, Stu Jorge made me realize something: Fish are terrible people.
Two years ago I took a class that spent half a semester on poetry. I hate poetry. Not for the usual reasons. Every time I have to write a poem, I wind up spending hours on Google researching things so I can write intelligently. (Do other people fact-check their poetry?) Invariably, I find something I’d rather never have known. (See: DeDe, the Indonesian Tree Man.)
The poem that ruined my life was one I was writing about sharks. I wasn’t sure if I could call a shark a “man-eater” because I’ve only ever heard that term applied to lions and literally everything in Australia. I Google one little thing, and all of the sudden I’m unable to stop researching things that can eat you. Long story short, I now travel everywhere with a key specifically for stabbing things, a flashlight specifically for blinding things, and a baseball bat specifically for clubbing things. (You think I’m joking.)