I have a new dude...and he was much cheaper than shoes.

Monday was especially shitty. Lots of bad news. One frustration after another. I scrambled frantically to problem solve.

I failed. Repeatedly.

Exhausted and overwhelmed, I fled my office under the guise of running errands because I figured maybe the drive would do me good. Fail. I found myself inching along in traffic, trying to gather my thoughts as I ground my teeth and gripped the steering wheel for dear life. And then I saw it. The thing I didn't even know that I was looking for! The answer to all of my problems...a Petco! I knew right then that there was one purchase I could make that would cause all my worries to fade away.

FISH!!

Yes! Of course! A pet fish will solve everything. They're cheap, they come in pretty colors, and they can be purchased on a whim. In other words, the perfect retail therapy. In this economy, disposable aquatic pets are the new black.

Mere minutes later, I was the proud owner of a turquoise and purple Siamese fighting fish. My new fish is super awesome. He swishes around his sleek black tank with fluidity and grace, occasionally stopping to pick a fight with his own reflection. He builds massive nests of bubbles in the hopes that some female beta might stop by to drop off some eggs. You see, in the fish world, having a large gathering of air bubbles is like driving a BMW...chicks dig it. And judging by the size of his nest, my fish is a goddamn pimp.

Deal with it.

Such a fish deserves an awesome name. By the end of the day, I had it narrowed down to two choices: Shelley and Cat Fish. Naming a fish Cat is cool because, besides being obviously hilarious, it lends itself to all sorts of passive aggressive statements.

"Cat seems kinda mad at you." "Cat looks hungry for pancakes." "Cat says its your turn to be on top."

The idea for Shelley came from the poet. I already have a cat named Lord Byron and since Persy Shelley and George Byron were the best of friends, I hoped that such a nom de fish would bode well for the relationship between my pets. This was not the case.

The next morning, I awoke to hear a suspicious swishing sound. Oh no. I looked over and saw Byron, eyes big and round like saucers and claws extended, waving his arm about in the tank as the poor fish tried frantically to elude his grasp. Fahk! I can't think of anything that could be more depressing than watching your cat eat the fish that you bought to cheer yourself up less than twenty four hours earlier. I launched myself across poor Andy who, blissfully unaware of the battle between predator and prey that was taking place on the nightstand, had been sleeping peacefully. "No! No! Nooooo!". I waved my arms and clapped my hands together, trying desperately to distract him before he caught hold of the thing. It worked. He lifted up his wet, dripping paw and stared at me hatefully, pupils narrowed and one ear pinned back in annoyance. Then he sauntered away.

Lord Byron would never do that to Shelley. Cat Fish it is.