The Goldfish Monologues

The day my dad announced he was cutting the cable was the day I officially became social collateral damage. I'd been planning to spend my entire summer hiatus binge-watching reality TV and living vicariously through people who had even more drama than my high school. Instead, I was relegated to staring at Bubbles — my orange goldfish — while everyone else at lunch discussed the season finale I'd missed. Because apparently, watching TV shows weeks after they air is practically a war crime in tenth grade.

The cable situation forced me into an unexpected friendship with Lena, the quiet art kid who sat behind me in history. I'd judged her harsh ass default — she always smelled like paint and wore these oversized sweaters that swallowed her whole. But desperate times, you know? When I mentioned I was dying without cable, she didn't laugh. Instead, she invited me over to watch shows on her laptop.

Her room was plastered with paintings — mostly abstract stuff, lots of orange and gold hues that reminded me of Bubbles back home, doing his endless laps around his fishbowl. We ended up talking for hours about everything but TV. Her parents' divorce, my pressure to get into a good college, how sometimes we both felt like we were swimming in circles just to stay in the same place.

That summer taught me something cable TV never could: sometimes the universe disconnects you from one thing to connect you to something better. Lena and I painted Bubbles' bowl together — orange swirls and goldfish patterns on the glass. When school started again, I didn't care about missing the season finale anymore. I had something better than whatever everyone was obsessed with — I had a friend who actually saw me, not just the shows I supposedly should've watched.

Bubbles is still swimming his laps. And yeah, sometimes I miss mindless TV. But I've learned that real connection beats passive entertainment any day. Even if it took losing cable to figure that out.