Addiction, and a baseless hatred for fish

It seems all the fish are gone.

Fishermen say this all the time, constantly complaining about the lack of fish. ”No fish anymore. All of’em gone with’em winds, or waves, if you prefer.” All of them, they say – and still they come home from long and heroic journeys with ridiculously large fish unknown to the world, caught from the deepest depths of a really deep place. “Pff,” they say, spitting on the crowd. “It really isn’t a big deal.” Shortly after, everyone gets drunk.

I don’t like fish. I never liked fish. I once went out in a boat to catch some fish. Actually caught one, too… I wasn’t a bad fisherman, in other words. I knew the techniques, I had the cool sunglasses, the funny vest, the professional stance and the look you have when you try to look like a smart hawk. All was good, until I actually caught one. It was slimy, scaly, tried to make soap bubbles with oxygen, wiggled and it tried to take the hook with its eye.

I don’t like fish…

I do, however, like bubble gum. There is some sort of dark shadow lingering over me, whispering “bubble gum, yum, yum” in my ears all the time. Sitting in meetings, I’m just like the smokers, shaking, breathing heavily, tapping fingers, eyes moving around franticly as if being followed while sitting still. My jaws automatically move up and down, munching on the lovely, juicy, bubbly, gummy and very fictional bubble gum that seems to be lacking. All the smokers look at me and feel my suffering, and we all become brothers in arms, fighting against the dire need for a smoke – or in my case, bubble gum.

When I was short and had bruises on my knees, there was an ice cream with bubble gum flavour. I think it might have been the start of it all. Ice cream is the closest a child comes to pure bliss, fluffy clouds, monster trucks, snowball fights, food fights, mud fights, mock fights, real fights and bathtubs. Any ice cream can do that, but for me, the bubble gum flavoured ice cream was awesome. It was delicious, let me experience the taste of fluffy clouds and monster trucks and on top of that, I didn’t have to chew bubble gum, because I was eating the greatest combination ever.

All of a sudden, they stopped. No more bubble gum ice cream combination awesomeness. I got the most confusing and heartbreaking answer from my local and very Spanish ice cream salesman. “Que? El ice cream del bubbly gumbos combinación? No, nada, no more, mi amigo.”

Even though we spoke different languages, we understood each other through our passion – once shared, now lost.

Recently, I saw a shop with a sign outside. “New! Fish Ice Cream!”

Now I’m depressed. And I can’t find my bubble gum. And I’m in a meeting. And I’m sharing my suffering with the many other smokers in the room. All of them are looking at me with reassuring eyes, telling me it’s OK and that we’ll all go out soon and take a smoke.

I just want some bubble gum…

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