Fish Fingers

I feel guilty for not writing for so long. I have this awful habit of quitting everything I start. When I was ten I started horse riding. By the time I was thirteen it was over. Singing lessons - age nine to twelve. Swimming: age five to fourteen. Not so bad, actually. All my stints at hockey, poetry, obscure punk rock, dancing, manga, gypsy clothes, even being blonde... down the drain, sometimes slowly but surely, sometimes doomed from the start. Like the time I had a goldfish when I was eight. I loved it dearly for a week, standing over it while it ate, watching it for minutes at a time (watching a fish for minutes straight is the equivalent of watching cricket for hours - so mind-numbingly boring that its like taking a dose of knockout panadol). Then, gradually, our relationship began degrading, rolling gently downhill - until it plunged over the edge of the cliff at the bottom. That was when I became so disinterested that I forgot to feed it, let my friend's little sister wash its bowl, and came into the kitchen for cookies just in time to watch it make one last, fateful flop for freedom down the plughole.
Maybe that's symbolic. i'drather not dwell on the possibilities. I just hope that the Fingers the fish found happier times wherever he ended up.