Disclaimer: I don't even own a goldfish. That says enough in itself: that I don't own, or take credit for the creation of characters mentioned in this work.
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You're not sure you know what love is.
Always thought that there were three types of love. One being the love for your friend, for someone like Wilson. You think he's pretty cool. Wilson and you – yeah, you're tight.
Then there was your introprospective love. The kind of love known to eat you whole; flesh, bone and all. You don't suppose you've ever felt that kind of love. You think you lack severely in gullibility, to be able to feel that kind of love. Cameron, on the other hand... She's a different story.
Not that you have anything against Cameron. Poor kid.
You don't understand why she loves you. You're senile, bitter, obnoxious... The list goes on. Wilson kindly reminds you of this every day. But she's your introspective lover. Mousy, almost.
Then, there is the third type of love... Inanimate object love. Like your love for your cane, or your love for your goldfish. Wilson, motherly as he is, reminds you at the Pet Shop that you need a new ironing board, not a goldfish. Your last ironing board died from trauma – in an incident you don't wish to elaborate on. But you can't love an ironing board like you can love a goldfish.
Truth be told, you needed some company. Someone to love or even live for. Someone to talk to, that won't respond back with sarcasm or extreme stupidity. (You hear enough of that at the hospital, working in the clinic.)
You bought a goldfish, much to Wilson's dismay. Named it Goldie, sat it in a bowl by your piano. You'd always wanted a goldfish. Thought maybe it was the first thing you had ever truly loved.
Which it was, for the three weeks that it lived for. After a day of Cuddy's clinic duty and the stupidity of your ducklings, you had Goldie to come home to. But one night you came home to a goldfish that floated eerily atop the water, it's eyes unblinking and deathly silent.
You find it difficult to swallow your tears. So this is what love is.
You stare at Goldie, floating just as lifelessly in the porcelain bowl. Limping to reach, your hand flushes the toilet, only to propel the only thing you have ever loved into the Pacific Ocean.
You think maybe you should buy an ironing board next time.
