finding emo.
Once there was a little fish named Meg.
She wasn’t actually that little. Actually, kind of round. But not too long, so still technically little.
What Meg wanted more than anything in the world was to have little fish fry. Not fried fish, mind you, because that would be weird, considering that she was a fish.
(In fact, just tonight Meg learned the name for baby fish, and it sounds about as suitable as calling baby pigs, “Bacon”.)
A couple years ago, Meg learned that she could not have fry of her own. This was tough, but she kept swimming and breathing as best she could through her gills and looking on the bright side. Which was up, since the sun reflects on the water.
And she knew she would be okay, eventually.
What she also knew is that she’d take someone else’s fry to be her fry.
Kind of like she used to at McDonald’s when she got the small size and wanted more and someone wasn’t looking.
But that isn’t really how adoption works.
That’s more kidnapping, and for that they put you in the Fish Gulag. Otherwise known as Petco.
Wait, where is this going?
Tonight, I watched Juno. Which everyone has been telling me to see, because a) apparently I am Juno-esque, save for my inability to bake buns in my home oven; and b) I would write a movie like this, left to my own devices. Apparently.
And it made me cry, of course, because it’s not just about Juno, but about Vanessa, who wanted to be a mom so badly… and then she was.
As I will be, one day.
Probably not by myself, because hello, I am too lazy for such things. Really. I’d get even less sleep and then walk fatally into a wall or something.
But I want it more than anything. And I believe I will be good at it. I don’t need to bake my own bun to love the warm bun-ness of it all.
Which is where the tears come from. Not out of sadness, but just knowing something good is coming and so why not blubber about it?
Because that’s what I do.
Or, you know… I can always just get some fries.
