I have my less-than-impressive surface area and X chromosomes to thank for my low alcohol tolerance. It’s not like I can put “holding my liquor” on a resume or impress my parents with it– but it would be nice to be less of a goober about it.
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.
I had to write an opinion article this week for the first time ever. I was dismayed to discover that all of my opinions are approximately 40 words long and they almost all stem from irrational fears I have.
Actually, I hesitate to call them irrational fears because they all have a basis in past experiences or things I’ve seen (Let’s be clear here. They’re things I’ve seen… on the internet. That probably makes them count less, but doesn’t make them any less disturbing.)