by - 9:35:00 AM

I don't really love animals. It doesn't take a brain surgeon to realize I got that from my mom. That's why it was surprising, even to me, when I decided to purchase a fish. My roommate and I were in Wal*Mart, walked past the pet aisle, she said she wanted a dog, I said how about a fish? The end.

Then that nice, perfect boy came over. And he wanted a fish in our fish tank, too. So, we let him buy a fish. And it died. (May Papi rest in peace.) And then we bought him a replacement. And it died, too. Just today. We just got the news from a roommate. (May Dakota rest in peace.) This morning I sat, eating my left-overs reheated for breakfast (yes, I'm aware that's it is disgusting I re heat teryaki for breakfast), and watched as poor Dakota struggled to get enough energy to swim. I guess he didn't pull through.

Dustin is pretty upset. His exact words: "Mutiny."

I guess the anger always comes before the realization and the grief.

But, really? Who can blame him? I mean that's two fish in a week and a half. It reminds me of the five fish I had over a two day time period. One would die, and I would make my mom buy me another one. Let me restate: that's five fish in two days. And I named them all George.

Maybe it's me. Maybe we should move the tank to Dustin's house. That way, if his fish dies again, he can't blame me, or the fact he thinks my fish bullies his. And I can stop reliving the associated guilt I am automatically forced to feel from my expiriences with George(s).

Then again, Raoul-my fish, is thriving.

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