Go Fish ...

Last year I killed two goldfish. That would be Josh Lyman, who died after a mere seven days of life in a lovely bowl in my basement apartment. That would be the time my poor roommate woke up one morning to find me holding said fish bowl, dead fish still inside, sobbing uncontrollably for no apparent reason (because really, a week-old fish would not be an apparent reason for such behavior from a stoic like me). She hugged me, we flushed him, and I suppose I recovered. Until the next month, when John Roberts (the fish, not the Chief Justice) entered my world to fill the void left by Josh Lyman. (Not just Josh, for the record. Always Josh Lyman.) But alas, John Roberts (same story) began to be obviously ill after just days in my care. (And by obviously, I mean blood oozed out of his eye. Sad, I know.) A few days later he too suffered a tragic death. Now, I am not a murderer, or even an apathetic owner. I fed both fish the prescribed amount, looked at them more than a normal person should, and even bought the annoying little air pump that supposedly oxygenated the water and caused a buzzing sound that could be heard throughout the house. (OK, not difficult in that tiny place, BUT STILL.) I know no one else who loved their fish quite that much. Now, why, you ask (if still reading, which I doubt) would I relate such fishy tales today? Well, because this week my superiors at work (by which I mean people who actually receive a paycheck for their labor) decided that the interns should bring a fish for the office. As a hint, they put a fishbowl on my chair. Then they sent emails with fish photos. Then they filled the bowl with water and left it on the cabinet. I tried to explain that I am death to fish. I pointed out that the metal detector scanner security conveyor belt thing would probably fry the poor things. But no one would listen. So today I brought them fish.

And they ate them. All of them ...

... and I did not even cry ...