About three years ago, I won two fish on the boardwalk. They were promptly named Bruce and Patti and they lived in the tiny, filter-less fishbowl the arcade provided. A short while later, Patti seemingly ate Bruce. But she lived on as a solo act. After about nine months, I decided it was time to get her a proper home. I purchased a 10-gallon fish tank and adorned it with the obligatory gravel, fish castles and plants. Eventually, I got her two tank mates, both of whom were short lived. At some point, she was renamed “Fishy” by the crazy nephews, who are responsible for her care during my travels.

For at least eight months, ‘clean fish tank’ has been on my to-do list. It had gotten completely disgusting. Finally, last week, the filter stopped working and the tank started to turn a murky green shade. I took today off to tackle a bunch of personal administrative tasks, and at last, the fish tank was cleaned. This was no easy undertaking, and required not one but TWO trips to Wal-Mart for supplies. But the tank was cleaned, and Patti was returned to her now-sparkling home. I checked ‘clean fish tank’ off the list with glee.

So I just returned from celebrating my nephew’s fifth birthday, and I immediately looked at the tank to make sure Patti was doing okay.

She was not okay. She was stuck to the now-clean filter. And she is quite, quite dead. I feel awful about this. Because, clearly, I am a fish murderer. Some Pisces I am.

Let that be a lesson. Mess is best.