I come bearing bad news. This past weekend, our goldfish died. Her name was Goldy. I'm not sure how we knew it was a "she," but we knew. This isn't something you would necessarily give a hoot about, except for the fact that she's was 10.5 years old. That's right. 10.5 years old. My family really knows how to keep a fish alive. It's their only superpower. I got the brains; they got the fish-keeping-alive power. (There's a better way to say this, but it escapes me right now.)
Now, I never payed much attention to this fish as I went about my daily routine. I would walk by occasionally, and say "Wow, you've gotten big over the years." (To be fair, I say the same thing to myself whenever I walk by a mirror naked.) This fish has always been a staple in the kitchen. It was always there. I fed it while my parents went away. I never changed the water in it's bowl, however. That was outside of my juris"fish"tion. Ha. Haha. Hahaha.
It was very sad to see the beloved fish that we won at a Purim carnival more than 10 years ago pass away. It had almost outgrown it's bowl. That thing was meant to be swimming in a river, not a fishbowl. I always felt that we were mocking it whenever we had fish for dinner. Such a tease.
But alas, it's gone. It's swimming with the fishes, as the saying goes. It's moved on up to that big fishbowl in the sky. I don't think we'll get a new one. I'm not sure that we're ready for another 10 year commitment. Instead, I gave it a 21 flush salute. I'm happier this way. If it was any different, things would seem fishy. (I was unsure of how I would work this pun in, but I'm a genius, as usual, so there ya go.) Godspeed, Goldy, Godspeed.