The Summer of Catfish Jackson
Here is my summer plan.
It goes like this: leave a series of small circular patches on my face unshaved. These flocculent circles will grow into long, resplendent whiskers, like those of a catfish. That’s my plan. Look like a catfish. I drafted this list of names to adopt once I look more like a catfish:
Bottom-Feeding Man Fish
Land-Walking Fish Man
Of course, the plan ran into some resistance from Cassandra Morningfart, which is the real name of the real girl I’m dating.
Here is how that was resolved.
Cassandra Morningfart: “That would look stupid. And I will not call you Catfish Jackson.”
I then grabbed her mouth and moved it around so she appeared to be talking, and said in a replica of her voice, “Yeah! Try to look like a catfish! I’m on board!”
So after that speed bump, if it can even be called that after the speed and efficiency with which it was overcome, everything is in motion. I will soon look like a catfish. I will think like a catfish. I will eat like a catfish. I will worship catfish deities. I will ‘like’ statuses that my catfish friends post on Facebook. I will attend funerals and weddings for catfish. I will read catfish literature. This blog may start to lean towards the sympathies of catfish politics and catfish-lifestyle issues (can you believe catfish have a similar Bruce Jenner type controversy going on ‘down here?’ (‘down here’ is what we in the catfish world refer to what humans know as ‘underwater’)). I have already begun lining my apartment floors with mud and decomposed plant matter. I can now hold my breath for almost 20 seconds.
The transition is in full effect, as it were.
Catfish Jackson, signing off.
P.S. I’m not officially ‘signing off,’ for I cannot officially live ‘down here,’ (underwater) because that would kill me, so I will still have full access to human internet and many other amenities while I’m ‘up there,’ until the government (rightly) begins funding human-gill growing research programs.