Have I ever mentioned that I hate fish?
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have anything personal against the scaly creatures, which is probably why I’m so endlessly fascinated by this National Geographic feature on the world’s largest “megafish,” which I take to mean “big fish.”
Just please don’t try to serve me steaks of any of them, or cook ’em in my apartment. Tart recently decided we were not healthy enough and decided we should eat fish. Fish is good for you. Neither of us like to eat it. She bought several varieties, including some weird fucked up Lovecraftian thing that just should not fucking exist. There was also something white, another something the fish person claimed had a “nutty” flavor (?????), and boxed Mahi-Mahi patties that look enough like tofu burgers that after about six glasses of Scotch I might be willing to actually try nomming one with, like, two slices of American cheese provided I could punch the sofa really hard while I’m trying to choke it down.
So far we’ve eaten none of it. I’ve spent just long enough dreading the heinous fish-meal that I’m just barely sure, kind of, that I’m not going to have to eat it, but that’s small consolation, because the entire refrigerator now smells like fish. She had the best of intentions. But hopefully these terrifyingly mondo creatures will pursue her through vivid nightmares tonight, hopefully wearing top hats and carrying canes. And that’ll be the last of all this “healthy” talk.