My Bermuda Triangle

My fish tank is the fucking Bermuda Triangle of Washington state.  No seriously. Let me tell you a story:

Once upon a time my daughter suckered me into getting a red fish for her. It was beautiful. We put it in the tank and 18 hours later it was gone. I'm talking looked all over the floor, cleaned out the entire tank and never found a skeleton kind of gone.

The thing was gone. No where to be found. I suspected the cats, but they are all kinds of special and the evidence of a fish kidnapping would have been everywhere. Sadly this isn't the only fish who has gone M.I.A. Two others and a snail are gone.

The only logical conclusions is that aliens are abducting them in the middle of the night. 

I'm thinking about making tin foil hats for them. Really what else can I do?

Open Letter To The Seattle Times

Dear Editor,

My husband informed me that he no longer wants me to write letters to him or off to write them to his work to straighten things out like the fact that he doesn't get get MLK day off. I know. That was instituted by the guy who got fired. Wonder why? So he said that I should write letters to the editor. Then he realized that I would and that our newspaper is the Seattle Times and I have a massive bone to pick with you and suggested I blog letters to the editor instead.

He doesn't think I will get to far with this because I don't read the paper or watch the news. I really just prefer to read the political signs in people's yard come election time to get up to date with all the info I need.

He also thinks no one will see it if I post here. He has a point. Ha! Motherfucka doesn't know that I'm writing to you editor, to inquire about you donating ad space. Nothing much, maybe something on page 3 with a large writeup on the front page. Not only would this make for a great topic of controversy for you, but do good for women everywhere to put their husbands in place. Plus he has stopped responding to my e-mails. He can't ignore the Seattle Times.

Thanks,
Cheers,
XOXO
Me

My fear is that I will die doing nothing. Nothing that someone can look back on and say "wow that is kind of cool."I will be just another person who hates what they do, barely gets by and at the end has nothing to look back on.

High school was full of possibilities. We were all blank slates dreaming about what we were going to become. High school was a dark hole populated by narcissists devoid of humanity. At least we were hopeful narcissists.

Now what? Somewhere between graduating college and a recession I find myself wishing to be back in high school. I should see a therapist about that.

But somewhere I drank the Kool-aid and came to believe that all my goals are pipe dreams. While my family nods and thinks that I have finally think that I "get it." I don't. Dreams don't die because they aren't possible they die because somewhere on the way we categorize them in the same realm as Santa in the Easter Bunny.

Why do we buy into that? How do I stop?