Goldfish
"Having perfected our disguise, we spend our lives searching for someone we don't fool."
- Robert Brault
Goldfish
‘Love is a Cannibal.’
October 5, 2026 — Courtesy of Co-Star, astrology app and teller of Whatever I Want To Hear.
Love, definition #4, courtesy of Merriam-Webster Dictionary: “unselfish, loyal, and benevolent concern for the good of another."
Cannibal, courtesy of Merriam-Webster Dictionary: “one that eats the flesh of its own kind.”
When I picture love as a cannibal, literally, it is an image that is difficult to digest. But it’s not necessarily one person eating another. I see this Voldemort-type, featureless, embryonic thing with its tail in its mouth, bloated but somehow also skeletal and teething away at basically nothing. Why is it eating itself? I don’t know.
So, ‘Love is a Cannibal.’
When I was five, I had two pets. There was Tudor, my family’s then six-month-old, almost one hundred pound Great Pyrenees, and Sparky, my goldfish with a peculiarly dog-like name. Tudor was my choice of a pet. Having entered elementary school that year, my father and I had grown fond of the idea of a dog completing our life as a nuclear family in suburban Los Angeles. It was always my father who would pull into the afternoon pick-up line in his black sedan (he eventually sold it for a flashier convertible when we moved up north and joined the techies of Silicon Valley), my father who would take note of the other parents waiting in line with their family dogs panting tongues-out in the passenger seat, my father who would slowly start to replace the Pocky sticks my mother would buy us with the animal crackers and GoGo Squeezes he watched other kids receive at the end of the school day.
At some point that fall, it had become routine for him and I to scroll each night on Craigslist for the cutest puppies near us. We had some disagreements; at the time, I wanted a teacup dog that I could essentially pack in my lunch bag and flaunt to all my friends at recess, whereas he wanted a classic golden retriever that could sit at his foot, chin up and loftily obedient, during all the weekend barbecues he’d host for his tennis buddies. We settled on a dog that would stay little at least for a little while, and then mature into the hulking, masculine guard dog that my dad wanted to grow old with.
When my grandmother came over one Saturday and overheard our plan to go look at a litter the next day, she was appalled. She imagined a puppy would tear up our perfectly trimmed rose garden that she’d so painstakingly helped curate, send petals of clashing red and yellow and genetically modified blue flying around the driveway like a wedding gone wrong. If I wanted a pet so bad, she tutted, she’d get me a fish. And that she did. When we returned home the following afternoon from the rebellious act of viewing the litter anyways, my grandma reached into that Poppins-esque tote of hers and produced a bulging plastic bag the size of a softball. Suspended in it was a baby goldfish, so unmoving one might have thought it was congealed in resin. I groaned, my father laughed. My mother had already helped install a little spherical tank in my bedroom next to the Barbie cruise ship I’d gotten the previous Christmas, so that the fish might have something entertaining to peruse for the duration of its otherwise humdrum life. I couldn’t fathom how the entire situation amused my family so much. The wretched thing would be my problem, living in my room next to my dolls and watching my life play out in those four walls. I couldn’t even play with it, and yet it would be privy to all my playdates and tantrums, to all the drama I’d enact with my Barbies. What a creep.
“Relax, Mickey. Goldfish don’t remember anything. They’re super dumb.” My brother, one year older and always the more poised sibling between the two of us, rolled his eyes. He offered to take the fish off my hands, but I refused. I could handle a stupid fish. I could do hard things.
“SATURDAY AT A GLANCE
You are the only person you need to be loyal to right now.
The constant stream of demands has left you stretched thin. People count on your flexibility, but you’ve become a doormat. Stop explaining yourself. Cancel plans. Disappoint someone. Watch how quickly the world keeps spinning.
DO DON’T
Humblebrag People as projects
Self-portrait Double booking
Mirrors Lapping it up”
Tina Phan’s Co-Star Astrology Predictions; October 10, 2026.
DO DON’T
Humblebrag People as projects
Self-portrait Double booking
Mirrors Lapping it up”
Tina Phan’s Co-Star Astrology Predictions; October 10, 2026.
In the first few weeks of owning Sparky, denominated so because of one particularly yellow, particularly large scale perched right at the curve of his rear into his tail, I did a fairly good job at caring for the goldfish. I fed him three times a day, changed the water on occasion, and rinsed filter media. It was a fairly commendable accomplishment for a five year old—for the time that it lasted.
Because I am some years past five, maybe with a better memory and a poorer imagination, maybe less honest and more vulnerable, I’ll give you how the pivot in my care for Sparky happened to a degree of certain uncertainty. It went something like,
“Mickey, I have a surprise.”
The lawn is damp and gritty rose pollen stagnates in the bubble of our post-torrented front yard. My Gymboree capris have gone from cream to grey on the kneecaps and something in my blood basks in this rare humidity, like I know that this is what motherland weather feels like despite living in the arid Valley for my entire life. PAUSE—scratch that last sentence. You don’t think about those things, not like that. Not right now. Right now, you are thinking that you want to go back to After the Bell and get down, down, down, into the soil cowering under the tanbark of the monkey bars, army crawl against Kelsey one more time to see who’s the better soldier. But you’re in your yard instead, cloyed by the roses, bending down towards the concrete driveway, pulling at the mud-soaked, itchy fabric on your kneecaps too hard, swiveling around ridiculously on both soles, scowling at Mommy for picking you up and telling you, “Wait just a moment, let me just open the trunk.” You’re baring your fangs at her for making you bask in this rarity, this wet May air, without letting you go to battle again—all thoughts which lead you to remembering that you tied Kelsey like some chump. You think about what Daddy always tells you: wash your brain and get back up. You don’t know what this means, really, but you swish the idea around and lick it for taste and disgorge it back out. On some level, there is an understanding stirring inside that you are too bitter to forget, sometimes too tired to get back up, but for Daddy, you will try. You’re a good soldier.
“Tada! Aren’t you surprised? You’re so surprised.”
“Mickey, I have a surprise.”
The lawn is damp and gritty rose pollen stagnates in the bubble of our post-torrented front yard. My Gymboree capris have gone from cream to grey on the kneecaps and something in my blood basks in this rare humidity, like I know that this is what motherland weather feels like despite living in the arid Valley for my entire life. PAUSE—scratch that last sentence. You don’t think about those things, not like that. Not right now. Right now, you are thinking that you want to go back to After the Bell and get down, down, down, into the soil cowering under the tanbark of the monkey bars, army crawl against Kelsey one more time to see who’s the better soldier. But you’re in your yard instead, cloyed by the roses, bending down towards the concrete driveway, pulling at the mud-soaked, itchy fabric on your kneecaps too hard, swiveling around ridiculously on both soles, scowling at Mommy for picking you up and telling you, “Wait just a moment, let me just open the trunk.” You’re baring your fangs at her for making you bask in this rarity, this wet May air, without letting you go to battle again—all thoughts which lead you to remembering that you tied Kelsey like some chump. You think about what Daddy always tells you: wash your brain and get back up. You don’t know what this means, really, but you swish the idea around and lick it for taste and disgorge it back out. On some level, there is an understanding stirring inside that you are too bitter to forget, sometimes too tired to get back up, but for Daddy, you will try. You’re a good soldier.
“Tada! Aren’t you surprised? You’re so surprised.”
Maybe that’s not exactly how it went. But the discomfort of the mud on your knees disappears with the Houdini style unveiling of a creamy, unsullied little ball of fluff palpitating in the three-by-two crate your mother begins to unfasten.
“Daddy is picking up some toys for him right now. But this is Tudor, Mickey. Come on, isn’t this all you ever wanted?”
And before you can even say yes, the puppy’s unbelievably large, impossibly caramel weapons of sweet mind control sweep up to your own eyes and you begin to bawl. Factory reset: Sparky forgotten.
The gap
focusing on actions here. how anyone shows up is all that matters. why would u tell me you would come to my show? how could u forget? and why wouldn’t you fix it when i could see on your face across a room with a hundred people that you felt horrible? and why does it feel like the walls come up when nothing’s really changed? am i crazy? i’m sick of everything you say, i’m sick of everything u don’t do, i’m sick of having expectations that are too high and i’m sick of u not meeting them and i’m so sorry i feel this way, im sick im sick im sick i feel so sick im
hey. i know you feel bad about earlier and i was upset you didn’t make it but u didn’t really have any obligation to come anyways so it’s ok. im glad u spent some time with your friends. and u know i love you. just dont get my hopes up next time lol
how was the rest of ur night?
Random cool fax
According to Google/Quora: “Experts suspect the myth of ‘goldfish memory’ was popularised to justify keeping goldfish in tiny, unchanging bowls, allowing owners to feel less guilt.”
Tudor was my baby. I hated to watch him grow so quickly and so exponentially that in some sense, the five year old version of me had already begun to appreciate the reality of the phantom growing pains mothers must have alongside their children as they mature. But Tudor wasn’t just for me. He belonged to the family, equally my father’s dog as he was mine. For a short time immediately following his unification with the four of us, the pampering of Tudor overrode almost all other obligations. My mother would dash home from work quicker than ever before with little doggy treats from a local bakery; my father would excuse my brother and I from the end of our school days to go to the beach with our puppy. I recall this time of my life as perfect (read: airbrushed).
Upon returning from one such beach trip, I took Tudor up to my room with me. It seemed his energy hadn’t entirely exhausted itself by the ocean, and in a rush of excitement, he bumped the base of the fish tank I had quite thoroughly forgotten existed. Now I wasn’t some monster; I had been feeding Sparky, of course. But that act was muscle memory. It was a given step in my morning, after school, and nighttime routine. The additional responsibilities of maintaining his sphere of a home? I had entirely forgotten. I peered into the glass. Was that spark of a scale smaller and duller than before, or was I mistaken?
The goldfish was most definitely misshapen. Its ridiculous eyes bulged out of its exceptionally puffed up body, and when it made an abrupt turn to face my probably distorted singular eye squinting into the bowl, I snapped my vision shut and stumbled backwards over Tudor’s wagging tail.
“Daddy is picking up some toys for him right now. But this is Tudor, Mickey. Come on, isn’t this all you ever wanted?”
And before you can even say yes, the puppy’s unbelievably large, impossibly caramel weapons of sweet mind control sweep up to your own eyes and you begin to bawl. Factory reset: Sparky forgotten.
November 15, 2024 at 7:33 pm
New Note
The gap
focusing on actions here. how anyone shows up is all that matters. why would u tell me you would come to my show? how could u forget? and why wouldn’t you fix it when i could see on your face across a room with a hundred people that you felt horrible? and why does it feel like the walls come up when nothing’s really changed? am i crazy? i’m sick of everything you say, i’m sick of everything u don’t do, i’m sick of having expectations that are too high and i’m sick of u not meeting them and i’m so sorry i feel this way, im sick im sick im sick i feel so sick im
hey. i know you feel bad about earlier and i was upset you didn’t make it but u didn’t really have any obligation to come anyways so it’s ok. im glad u spent some time with your friends. and u know i love you. just dont get my hopes up next time lol
how was the rest of ur night?
November 16, 2025 at 12:07 am
New Note
Random cool fax
According to Google/Quora: “Experts suspect the myth of ‘goldfish memory’ was popularised to justify keeping goldfish in tiny, unchanging bowls, allowing owners to feel less guilt.”
Tudor was my baby. I hated to watch him grow so quickly and so exponentially that in some sense, the five year old version of me had already begun to appreciate the reality of the phantom growing pains mothers must have alongside their children as they mature. But Tudor wasn’t just for me. He belonged to the family, equally my father’s dog as he was mine. For a short time immediately following his unification with the four of us, the pampering of Tudor overrode almost all other obligations. My mother would dash home from work quicker than ever before with little doggy treats from a local bakery; my father would excuse my brother and I from the end of our school days to go to the beach with our puppy. I recall this time of my life as perfect (read: airbrushed).
Upon returning from one such beach trip, I took Tudor up to my room with me. It seemed his energy hadn’t entirely exhausted itself by the ocean, and in a rush of excitement, he bumped the base of the fish tank I had quite thoroughly forgotten existed. Now I wasn’t some monster; I had been feeding Sparky, of course. But that act was muscle memory. It was a given step in my morning, after school, and nighttime routine. The additional responsibilities of maintaining his sphere of a home? I had entirely forgotten. I peered into the glass. Was that spark of a scale smaller and duller than before, or was I mistaken?
The goldfish was most definitely misshapen. Its ridiculous eyes bulged out of its exceptionally puffed up body, and when it made an abrupt turn to face my probably distorted singular eye squinting into the bowl, I snapped my vision shut and stumbled backwards over Tudor’s wagging tail.
“Momma! Momma! Come here! Something’s wrong with Sparky!”
From Sparky’s point of view, instead of one huge brown orb ogling his condition, there appeared two. A much more frightening experience, I’m sure. He continued to float like he did when he first came to me, as though congealed in resin. But with my mother by my side, I could more gutsily assess what had gone awry. It seemed that I was correct; not only was his spark of a scale smaller and duller—it was also decomposing. We watched as microscopic bits of the scale slowly broke off, and in an astonishing display of so rarely exhibited vitality and zeal, Sparky dove for a larger flake, opened his much too fatty, grossly distended lips, and sealed them around the piece. We gawked; he quivered his tail just once. The lethargy resumed.
THE ONE-WOMAN SHOW.
Script for Auction.
JANE: How dare you! I let you into my life, and this is how you repay me?
John turns the lock. His body sags, the line of his mouth is neutral. He does not hesitate out the doorframe.
JANE (Panicked): Wait! Don’t leave. I- I don’t even know what I’m saying. Your watch is back there. You still have clothes here. I don’t care what you do with our home. This house is yours to burn, anyway.
With some research, it became quite evident that the cause of Sparky’s quasicannibalistic behaviour was the bacteria-ridden environment he had been living in, courtesy of yours truly. His body had become severely infected and pieces of his flesh were starting to necrotise, even with our attempts at refreshing his water and administering medicine. The fish was a mangled mess that even my parents didn’t want me to see at a certain point, and so the tank was moved to their bedroom. I had Tudor, of course, but the guilt riddled me deeply. I’d get into bed at night and as soon as my head hit the pillow, cuddling with my puppy would turn into nightmares of snuggling with a Tudor-sized Sparky. In my dreams, the fish was even more bloated around the face, and horrifyingly red-veined in those awful eyes. The bottom half of his body was almost entirely decayed, so that all that was left were the needle-thin bones that scaffolded what was once a tangerine-tinted, crystalline tail. When my eyes would draw back to the fish’s disfigured face, it would return my gaze and blubber the fat of its lips against each other in what was, impossibly, the motion of chewing. Chewing, chewing, chewing.
Well write them, goddamnit!
From Sparky’s point of view, instead of one huge brown orb ogling his condition, there appeared two. A much more frightening experience, I’m sure. He continued to float like he did when he first came to me, as though congealed in resin. But with my mother by my side, I could more gutsily assess what had gone awry. It seemed that I was correct; not only was his spark of a scale smaller and duller—it was also decomposing. We watched as microscopic bits of the scale slowly broke off, and in an astonishing display of so rarely exhibited vitality and zeal, Sparky dove for a larger flake, opened his much too fatty, grossly distended lips, and sealed them around the piece. We gawked; he quivered his tail just once. The lethargy resumed.
THE ONE-WOMAN SHOW.
Script for Auction.
JANE: How dare you! I let you into my life, and this is how you repay me?
John turns the lock. His body sags, the line of his mouth is neutral. He does not hesitate out the doorframe.
JANE (Panicked): Wait! Don’t leave. I- I don’t even know what I’m saying. Your watch is back there. You still have clothes here. I don’t care what you do with our home. This house is yours to burn, anyway.
THE END.
With some research, it became quite evident that the cause of Sparky’s quasicannibalistic behaviour was the bacteria-ridden environment he had been living in, courtesy of yours truly. His body had become severely infected and pieces of his flesh were starting to necrotise, even with our attempts at refreshing his water and administering medicine. The fish was a mangled mess that even my parents didn’t want me to see at a certain point, and so the tank was moved to their bedroom. I had Tudor, of course, but the guilt riddled me deeply. I’d get into bed at night and as soon as my head hit the pillow, cuddling with my puppy would turn into nightmares of snuggling with a Tudor-sized Sparky. In my dreams, the fish was even more bloated around the face, and horrifyingly red-veined in those awful eyes. The bottom half of his body was almost entirely decayed, so that all that was left were the needle-thin bones that scaffolded what was once a tangerine-tinted, crystalline tail. When my eyes would draw back to the fish’s disfigured face, it would return my gaze and blubber the fat of its lips against each other in what was, impossibly, the motion of chewing. Chewing, chewing, chewing.
STOP CHASING YOUR PIPE DREAMS OF OTHER PEOPLE, FOR OTHER PEOPLE! THIS IS THEM, AS THEY ARE NOW—
DON’T BE A GOLDFISH.
State your Terms and Conditions here:
Well write them, goddamnit!
beautiful as always
ReplyDelete