The sea hath blogs for every woman.

I think I'm turning into a fish. At first I thought I was just extra thirsty, but yesterday, during one of my dry-run suicide attempts, I noticed I was able to stay beneath the bubbles in my bathtub for a full 17 minutes. To be fair, I haven't timed myself lately, but I think that's longer than normal. Also, when someone offered me a gummi worm at work yesterday, I briefly considered accepting but was then overcome by a strong sense of impending danger and ran to hide under a large rock in the court until I was coaxed out by my manager. It's not that I mind the transformation; I mean there are worse things that one could turn into. A brick wall going 90 miles per hour, for example. (Shout-out to Princess Di!) In all seriousness, I'm not going to try to fight this. If being a fish-girl is my destiny, then I'll welcome it with open fins. I didn't even have to think twice about ending that sentence. I wasn't tempted to use "arms" because I know they will soon be useless appendages and either shrink and mutate or simply fall off. On the downside, I won't be able to control any type of typing instrument with which to convey my feelings about becoming a completely new species, but I'll try to work out a system of communication that relies on periodically released bubbles before making the switch. One bubble could mean: "Nearing the conclusion to my theory that God is either non-existent or dead, and that in the absence of an omnipotent power, unexplainable chaos is ripping through the universe as it attempts to compete with MP3 players the size of kidney beans for our attention and awed respect." Two bubbles could mean: "I'm feeling frisky, give me a ceramic castle to hide in." Well, there should be at least a week to hammer out the details, as from my understanding the complex transformation of back hair to dorsal fin takes a minimum of 8 days. I'm not sure where I read that, if at all. Something about the number 8 makes a lot of sense to me though and I suspect it's more of the animalistic instincts I'm inheriting. In any case, I suppose I should make the most out of my opposable thumbs while I still can. If you'll excuse me, I'm going to dab a little lemon juice behind the ears and hit the town. I have a sudden urge to swim upstream and tell manipulative lies to sailors.