So there's nothing exciting going on in my life right now. No interesting thoughts or revelations or any of that jazz. No crazy adventures worth writing about...other than my trip to the land of cutting my own bangs on Friday, but you don't really want to read about that. So this led me to the decision to write a post that I've been thinking about for a good six months now.
A couple years ago my brother received a goldfish as a prize at some sort of carnival thing. He was so excited. We hadn't gotten Puppy yet, so this was our first pet. Or rather, it was Josh's first pet. I wanted nothing to do with that nasty fish. So of course, I nicknamed it Fishstick and I teased Josh that it was going to die. Then it died two days after he got it. Guess who felt like a jerk...
So of course, out of guilt and a desire not to have wasted money on a fish tank, my mother caved and bought him two more fish. The jerk feeling had worn off by the time these two came around, so they were lovingly christened Number 10 (which at the time, was the number of the fish sandwich at McDonald's) and Muerto (which means, 'death' in Spanish). These fish were a bit luckier than little Fishstick though - they lasted four days.
My keyboard may soon have reason to hate you--I almost spewed coffee on it when I read this.
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