Eventually, It Will Eat Us In Our Sleep.

On impulse three weeks ago, I decided that my life wasn't all that cool and I needed to do something drastic to bring the awesome up to eleven and the only way to do that was to buy a shark.

"Trista," I said to myself in the bathroom mirror with a quiet passion so as not to wake The Pilot and clue him into the fact of what I was going to do, "we both know you are awesome and sometimes that awesome can be threatening and intimidating but it's still awesome. But something has been missing in your life and it's dragging that awesome down."

I nodded vigorously to myself because, honestly, I was totally right. " But I know exactly what you need," I said with an air of suspense, " You need a fucking shark."

And I was totally right, again.

It was only natural to sneak out of bed in the middle of the night and buy a shark online but I wasn't really prepared for the fact that it's probably illegal to buy a shark and I don't think my apartment is big enough to fill with club soda and salt so this thing could live. Or that I'd probably get in trouble when The Pilot catches me giving the dog swimming lessons in a shark infested tank. That'd probably get me like three spanks or something.

Refusing to be deterred because my reflection in the mirror told me I had to buy I shark, I stumbled upon the best fucking thing in the world.

A remote controlled powered helium filled AIR SHARK on eBay for like ten dollars that I totally bid on and after two weeks of waiting I finally won it and had it mailed to me. And the funny thing? I those two weeks I totally forgot that I had bought a pet shark late at night one night because my reflection told me so when I picked it up at the post office it was awesome.

Almost as awesome when I brought it home and hid it until I could go to Walmart and get a helium tank and the look on The Pilot's face when I randomly came home with a helium tank I totally didn't explain anything about was sort of priceless. It's almost as if he doesn't even know me to be surprised over me bringing home things such as compressed gas and just leaving it on the kitchen counter for three days with no explanation at all.

It sort of went like this:

The Pilot: "Baby, what's this helium tank doing on the kitchen counter?"
Me: "What helium tank? Baby you crazy."

This, of course, went on until I excitedly woke him up at seven in the morning on his first day off to declare "I BOUGHT A FUCKING SHARK!" and dragged him out of bed before he could start crying in fear or throw me out of the room so he could continue to sleep.

I wont lie about the fact he may or may not have let out a whimper when he realized that he was the one who was going to have to build me this flying shark while I didn't do anything remotely close to helping but I like to call it "supervising" because that's what I do. I supervise and back seat build.

Let me tell you, building a fucking flying shark isn't easy. It's hard work. From what I saw from the couch. I also didn't realize that this shark was totally like four feet long and pretty much as tall as me. It takes up a bunch of fucking room.

And I'm pretty sure we leaked half the helium tank into the atmosphere of our apartment.

But success! We had it built and motoring around and the first thing that I did was terrorize the dog until it got to the point he crawled behind the toilet and refused to come out because there was a fucking shark circling around the apartment.

And then I had the great idea of taking it into the apartment hallway and knocking on our neighbours doors so they could come face to face with this awesome flying shark. Several people didn't answer and others just closed the door on us and my giggling.

But then I got bored of it and needed a nap and since the thing was so huge we had to anchor it in our second bedroom because there was no where else to put it. And then in the middle of the night when you get up to get a drink or order more exotic animals off the Internet, it scares you shitless because a dark blob is menacingly floating around the bedroom.

But it's OK, it's just your pet shark.

I've named him Donkeypunch because it seemed appropriate.