I’m at the market to buy some fish.
I pace the aisles chuckling silently about my ironic opinions of fish;
When I was younger I hated the taste and always refused to eat it but for some reason enjoyed the aroma ceaselessly.
Now, older, I’ve driven to the supermarket so that I may pick out a specific fish, go home, cook it, and then eat it all by myself
And yet, I can’t stand how it smells.
I finally pick out the most colorful fish that doesn’t still have a head on it and take it home with me
Cook it with a clothespin
Eat it with a cigarette whose scent will still fill the air hours from now
Funny how we distract ourselves from unpleasantries with slightly less unpleasant ones
Or how we give up future happiness for now happiness
Cigarettes are always a fuckin’ metaphor, huh.
Going to bed somehow the fish smell still lingers on my fingers and I sniff
I still hate it
Yet I sniff again
It provokes a pride like I’d hunted and killed my own meal
Accompanied by the knowledge that I hadn’t; shame.
I think it’s more fun to have a pet fish; that way, at least you have time to get used to the smell.