When I was a kid, I had a goldfish named Fred. Actually, I initially had two goldfish, Fred and his bowl-mate, Ted. But two weeks into their Odd Couple-esque living arrangement, Ted went belly-up, a suspicious chunk nipped out of his orange hide. Clearly not taking Fred’s act of cannibalistic aggression all that seriously, my parents purchased another fish, because surely Fred was lonely and wanted some company! Except no, he did not, and a couple of weeks later Fred’s potential BFF, a fish we very imaginatively named Ed, was also found floating at the top of their bowl as Fred swam innocent-looking circles below. With that, my parents finally acquiesced to the truth that I had known all along – Fred was a straight-up psychopath!
So we decided to stop playing fish matchmaker, and Fred very happily lived his remaining eight years – yes, EIGHT – as a “Me, myself and if you come near me, I’ll eat you” type of bachelor. I like to think he enjoyed his life, such as it was. These nails actually represent Fred’s spartan living conditions pretty well – rocks, plastic fern, water. What can I say, Fred was a minimalist.