Roze knows

She actually doesn’t know all that much.

But as time goes on and she learns that being a human being requires a basic kind of common sense, she finds herself newly educated and surprised on a daily basis.

Why am I referring to myself in the third person? Perhaps because most of my sudden insights have come from third parties.

So the posts that fall under this category won’t always be a great example of my intellect, but merely the building blocks that shape me.

Let’s begin with an experience I had when I was 12 and more lacking in good judgement then I am today. Debatable in some circles, but fair.

 

Roze knows… goldfish.

I was 12 years old when my parents decided pets of some sort would be a good distraction for their somewhat precocious only child. The debate regarding which animal to invest in raged for weeks before fish were considered a safe, cost-efficient option. Hah. Little did my parents know, I was created to foil the best laid plans.

We started with three goldfish which I named Angel, Star and Britney. Not original, no, but I doubt many young girls could have done better. We took them home in a little glass bowl and upturned them into a shiny new rectangular tank the dimensions of any respectable coffee table. I fed them a little dinner and slipped them some desert before bed and promptly fell asleep with happy dreams of my new fish growing old with me.

I woke to find my fancy new friends floating dead on top of the tank. Needless to say despair was me.. for a good five minutes before I realized the fish must have been old and at the end of their tether. Nevertheless, I walked up the hill to my fish shop and bought four fish to be on the safe side this time: Angel II, Star II and Britney II were joined by Samantha the first. A similar ritual to the earlier day followed, this time we began with lunch then onto dinner and by the time I got to desert time, Star and Britney had died leaving me a little concerned. By morning Samantha and Angel had followed the others to fish heaven in soul and my father’s veggie patch in physical remains.

A similar routine to day two followed… and followed on for the week. I kept buying the fish and they kept dying. I started upping the meals to keep them alive a little longer, but to no avail. Finally, on Saturday morning realization dawned and I asked the fish shop man why his fish were all near death and if I should buy some tonic to keep them alive a little longer. He asked me to narrate my fish-keeping agenda to him. “I give them breakfast, recess, lunch, and dinner followed by desert. The problem is they always die after the first two or three meals and never get to have the fourth.” By this point I was almost in tears.

Thirty-five goldfish died that week and I couldn’t understand why this was happening to me. As the fish keeper man told me, fish only require one meal every other day, they forget they’ve eaten and explode from over eating.

Sigh, Roze knows.

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