The Fish with No Name

I have so much homework to do that the fact I've even typed this much (pause, consider just how little I have typed to this point) is ludicrous. Then consider that I am going to talk about my fish, and all hope for my future (a M.L.A. degree) is lost.

Look, I don't have time to charge my camera and take a picture right now, but I will later; however, I just don't understand my new fish. He is anorexic. Seriously. I've never seen him eat one food pellet. Periodically I drop a few pellets into his bowl just like the food container recommends. Every time, he goes through the same routine. He swims up to smell (do fish smell?)/ consider the food, pauses for a seconds, and swims away.

Scribbles, my last fish, would eat every pellet I dropped into his bowl. I mean, I could drop like six in there and he would eat every one of them. Of course, the container only recommends two to three pellets every few days. I think Scribbles might have died of gluttony.

My new fish doesn't have a name, but I'm not sure he is going to live long enough for it to matter.

Most. Pointless. Blog. Ever.

Anyway, back to the fishbowl of literary criticism.