I'm afraid of Goldfish.
Not the snack you find on aisle 10 at Walmart. I'm talking about the squishy, slimy, living fish that swim around in the mucky tanks at Walmart...or any other pet store.
Maybe once a year I'll find myself in the general vicinity of the goldfish tanks at Walmart. My throat closes, my stomach churns, my eyes water, and my gag reflex kicks into gear. I can't even walk down the very aisle because of the paralysis that will seize my limbs. Sweat beads will form on my brown, and my breathing will grow shallow.
Ugh. They're horrid little creatures that should be banned, I say. Banned!
You see, on my fifteenth birthday, my mom and sisters gave me five goldfish. Margo, Margo, Margo, Margo and Margo. Great name, right?
I loved them and cherished my Margos and fed them ALL the time. Then, come spring, I had to go away on a short trip. Before I left for those couple days I was distraught with worry that my fishy friends would starve. So being a loving pet-caretaker, I dumped a plethora of fish food in their bowl so they could have a final feast before I left.
When I returned all five Margos were dead. White bloated bellies to the sky, in a swamp of brackish water.
(I just threw up in my mouth. I don't even know if I can finish this post).
Anyway. My mom made ME flush each fish down the drain. Sympathetic much? I think not. After watching them go, and then cleaning up the mucky dead-fish tank, I swear the stank of dead Margo-fish clung to me like a special-Erin aroma for days. I couldn't get it out of my nostrils.
So you see why I can't stand fish. That is my secret. Goldfish make me vomit.