You are astonished by the extent of attention that was paid to the meticulous artistic design of the pirate skull sculptures in the tank as you gasp for air before realizing that you are underwater so air is not really a thing right now...wait you are underwater? It's weird - yeah, it will take some getting used to and you don't like the idea of doing it without your trusty pair of goggles, but you are swimming underwater and have gills and the whole package, kind of like a low rent Aquaman if he wore swimming shoes. You bump into a huge goldfish and say sorry for your rudeness.
"Hey, watch it, buddy - I'm swimmin' here!" The goldfish caws out with a beautiful Brooklyn accent, fit for a pizza delivery dude from a musical on the far side of Broadway.
You apologize profusely before making your way North to the far side of the tank, eager to explore what your amazing new universe has to offer. You thread the needle through a pair of enormous statues of the nautical heroes SpongeBob and his ol buddy Patrick as you show off your newfound aquatic prowess to no one in particular, it's a free show so whoever wants to witness your greatness can step right on up to the plate. Michael Phelps should take a back seat to you while Missy Franklin bows down to your mastery of the marine world.
"Dave! Dave!.... DAVE!" Your girlfriend Nicole bellows out as she shakes your elbow with great ferocity and purpose; her main purpose being to stir you from your slumber. The problem is that it isn't just any ordinary slumber...you see, you popped a few too many party Tic Tacs and found yourself in quite the pickle. Well, to be fair it is more like you found yourself face first in your grandparents's goldfish tank right splat dab in the midst of your family's annual Christmas party. Luckily for you, the majority of your family was firmly wrapped in the grasps of an incredibly intense and off-the-charts competitive game of Charades, a game for all the Marbles, or at least first picksies in the next game of Marbles. Bubbles chortled and danced their way to the surface of the tank as your Aunt Karen flapped her arms around the living room in a wild fashion, fit for an insane asylum or an insane game of Charades. Finally, after what must have added up to many fish years, your face reemerges from the depths of the goldfish tank as you gasp for enough air the fill the lungs of ten thousand cigarette smokers.
"Gahhhh! Whaaaaaaaa-?" You screech out unwillingly as you nearly topple over backwards on your neon green yoga ball and become a makeshift game of Jenga in and of itself which happens to take home the third place ribbon in the contest of your family's favorite game to play at the annual Christmas party, closely trailing Charades and Marbles and just ahead of Twister (you should see the ferociousness with which Aunt Karen hurls and flings about her arms in a circular rotation, a human windmill and statuesque personification of a person's will to exceed, no matter what the field may be, taking the game of Twister a bit too literally, perhaps, maybe she thought they were playing the movie version of the game).
You wipe a little smudge of plankton off your upper lip, clear out a few pebbles of fake sand from the depths of your ears with your pinkie fingers and an emotional look settles on to your face, an expression that you have never had the ability to conjure up throughout the entirety of your storied existence, that is, not until this very moment, a moment of momentous proportions, a moment that will be written about for the rest of time, at least by you in your chapter of your family's collective memoirs.
"Let's do this thing." You say as your words sting the atmosphere, the equivalent of poetic dry ice.
Then you and Nicole took the Christmas party by storm, first politely and passive aggressively forcing your way into the game of Charades before taking it home in addition to the whole satchel of Marbles, becoming victorious when she correctly identified you as a school of fish taking a night class about geometry. You apologize profusely before making your way North to the far side of the tank, eager to explore what your amazing new universe has to offer. You thread the needle through a pair of enormous statues of the nautical heroes SpongeBob and his ol buddy Patrick as you show off your newfound aquatic prowess to no one in particular, it's a free show so whoever wants to witness your greatness can step right on up to the plate. Michael Phelps should take a back seat to you while Missy Franklin bows down to your mastery of the marine world.
"Dave! Dave!.... DAVE!" Your girlfriend Nicole bellows out as she shakes your elbow with great ferocity and purpose; her main purpose being to stir you from your slumber. The problem is that it isn't just any ordinary slumber...you see, you popped a few too many party Tic Tacs and found yourself in quite the pickle. Well, to be fair it is more like you found yourself face first in your grandparents's goldfish tank right splat dab in the midst of your family's annual Christmas party. Luckily for you, the majority of your family was firmly wrapped in the grasps of an incredibly intense and off-the-charts competitive game of Charades, a game for all the Marbles, or at least first picksies in the next game of Marbles. Bubbles chortled and danced their way to the surface of the tank as your Aunt Karen flapped her arms around the living room in a wild fashion, fit for an insane asylum or an insane game of Charades. Finally, after what must have added up to many fish years, your face reemerges from the depths of the goldfish tank as you gasp for enough air the fill the lungs of ten thousand cigarette smokers.
"Gahhhh! Whaaaaaaaa-?" You screech out unwillingly as you nearly topple over backwards on your neon green yoga ball and become a makeshift game of Jenga in and of itself which happens to take home the third place ribbon in the contest of your family's favorite game to play at the annual Christmas party, closely trailing Charades and Marbles and just ahead of Twister (you should see the ferociousness with which Aunt Karen hurls and flings about her arms in a circular rotation, a human windmill and statuesque personification of a person's will to exceed, no matter what the field may be, taking the game of Twister a bit too literally, perhaps, maybe she thought they were playing the movie version of the game).
You wipe a little smudge of plankton off your upper lip, clear out a few pebbles of fake sand from the depths of your ears with your pinkie fingers and an emotional look settles on to your face, an expression that you have never had the ability to conjure up throughout the entirety of your storied existence, that is, not until this very moment, a moment of momentous proportions, a moment that will be written about for the rest of time, at least by you in your chapter of your family's collective memoirs.
"Let's do this thing." You say as your words sting the atmosphere, the equivalent of poetic dry ice.
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