I stare into the bowl, willing the 2 oblivious goldfish to die. A year is more than long enough for a fish to live, and they have already stretched that overly-generous death-date for almost 3 months.
I bought them last November as a welcome-home present for my little brother and sister. They seemed more exciting than simply a bouquet of flowers. Plus we aren't allowed to have pets in our apartment and I have something of a rebellious streak.
Oh well. I don't take care of them anyway. Nor do Abbie and Jay. All the three of us do is trash talk the defenseless swimmers. My dad changes the water in their pathetic bowl of a home about once a week. He feeds them too. So do Abbie and Jay, occasionally, when they can find a free moment in their virtually empty schedules. The fish are often victims of overfeeding, due to lack of communication between the 6 hands that feed them. I don't hear them complaining though, and it certainly doesn't seem to have affected their health for the worse.
Resigned to the fact that they are still alive and well, I walk back to my room. Once arrived the first order of business is to excavate my bed, which has accumulated lots of junk throughout the course of the day. If I was really lazy I wouldn't even bother, and I would just sleep in one of the other 3 beds that are in here. I imagine that's what the Mad Hatter would do.
First my box of makeup gets moved to its rightful place atop my shoe holder. I then spot a t-shirt cleverly masquerading as my sheet and reach for it. Suddenly I stop. There, on the sleeve, is a stinkbug. Relaxing in my room, on my bed, on my brand new shirt! The nerve! Luckily I already know the drill. I pick up the shirt and carry it into the hall. Then I flick the unfortunate insect and I hear him hit the wall. This is my revenge: he isn't dead, only paralyzed. Now he will lie there until he starves, freezes, or regains motor skills and perseveringly directs himself to a more populated area of the apartment. In that case, we would start all over again.