About 3 weeks ago I bought a fish for my desk at work. I can kill a fish in 30 days, and that’s by doing everything right – food, water, PH levels... I am a fish serial killer and yet, I can’t help but keep trying. I’m surprised I haven’t been marked at all pet stores within a 50 mile radius. I’ve started paying in cash and wearing baseball caps as a precaution whenever I need pet supplies. Plus, I dispose of their little bodies Mafia-style – wrapped in a plastic bag, weighted down with chains and flushed down the toilet. Capisce?
I named my fish Stares because that’s all he does. I was going to name him Victim, but that seemed too heartless. I can’t wait until I have kids. I’ll be naming them Pukes, Shits and Screams. I hope my future husband’s last name is Lots. Wait, I got off track. What was I talking about? OH, right. The fish.
So yeah, I’m impressed: Stares is holding his own. He isn’t weak or sick. He’s actually quite feisty, like there is a little gremlin inside that fish body just waiting to get out…and kill me. Every Monday morning I half-expect to find a mangled cleaning person, dead at my desk, and pieces of torn clothing and a few stray jerry curls floating in Stares’ bowl. I think he’s capable of anything.
And there you have it, people. That’s my fish story. Since my company is shifting all the work to other locations, I don’t have much to do these days in the office except blog and look for jobs. Speaking of which, I’ve applied to a hard-ass company a friend of mine recently started working at. They really ran her through the ringer during the hiring process. Five interviews and a personality test. She’s a blonde, so I had to explain that peeing in the cup was really a drug test. Either way, she must have one clean personality, because she was hired. It remains to be seen if I am a warm enough body for their body snatchers to invade. I am sure you are all on the edge of your seats. I know I am.
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