the cheese stands alone

Speaking Of Food

Well, I mean, weren't we? Okay, wasn't I? As a woman on a constant diet in search of That Perfect Ass (no, not the one I married, stop that right now, he's listening, for godsakes!) I am of course constantly dwelling on, daydreaming about, desiring... food, glorious food!
This is why it irks me that my goldfish eat better than I do.
My goldfish, you see, are constipated. To you and I, this is but a wee inconvenience and a good time to catch up on our back issues of Cosmo. But to a goldfish, whose entire life is dedicated to expelling as much feces as possible, this a damn near a denial of existance. Consider the day of an average goldfish:
Get up.
Wiggle heinie.
Poop.
Swim a little.
Poop.
Examine poop.
Poop again.
Compare to previous poop.
Make that funny "ooooh" face.
Poop.
Eat ravenously.
Poop.
Brag about poop to other goldfish.
Short nap, with poop.
Poop.
Watch other goldfish poop.
Dismiss other poop as rank amateur poop.
Poop again, disdainfully.
Eat like you'll never see food again.
Poop.
Pre-bedtime poop.
Go to sleep.
Poop in sleep.

Now, imagine, if you dare, a goldfish without the miracle of kaka. He can do only one thing... float with his arse above the water line and wait for a miracle.
So I read up on the problem in "Goldfish Monthly: The Full Poop", and it said to feed him fresh peas, carefully squeezed from their skins, and orange slices, cut carefully into jussssst the right size.
This worked, by the way. The goldfish are pooping like stallions. My filter runneth over. Poop abounding. The Neverending Poop.
I could go on and on. And frequently do.
The point is, I need to be a goldfish, a constipated goldfish. I want to be pampered.
I've got the little "ooooh" face down pat.