MID WEEK Confession #30: I killed the Disciples

Not only do I kill fish for the sake of sushi and sashimi, I have cold-milked murdered them as well. The story goes a little something like this:

When I was a little girl (because that simple statement shifts the blame off my impressionable self and onto my parental figures) I owned four goldfish. Their names were Peter, Luke, John, and some other Biblical name, not necessarily in that order nor in any order of Biblical importance (unless it was done so in a subconscious fashion).

Anyways, these fish were quite the catch ( which is a hilarious play on words. I should write a blog about how funny I secretly think I am) however, I was unsatisfied with them (what can I say, I'm a female, we are never satisfied). I wanted the fish to be bigger, like the ones I'd see in my homeschool books.

I remember how my mom always coaxed me to drink my milk by saying, "it will make you grow big and strong." I'm pretty sure Barney the Dinosaur had a campaign quite similar every time he ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I took that saying to heart and, accordingly, I poured the residual gallon of milk (that previously had resided on the door-self in our refrigerator) into the fish tank. The clear, fresh, water parted as a thick milky fog settled in. I walked away feeling very accomplished.

Consequently, when my dad (quite frantically, might I add) told me that milk will not make my fish grow, I swore he and my mother had lied to me religiously (not about religion, just in a religious fashion) and I never drank it again. Till this day I still hate dairy milk.

Soy milk, I can tolerate. After all, if anything, it will just make my fish more feminine?

(by the way, I've had to pee for the past half-hour but I'm determined to finish this blog, you should feel appreciated, dear invisible reader)