Hello, dearest readers. As a person on track to finish Porn Addiction 101: How Not To Be Horny, I can confidently say that I do not hear the devil’s whispers anymore. Instead, my efforts are studiously fixed on a more intense, titillating hobby: my intense adoration of sharks, and my incessant need to get closer to these magnificent “sea dogs” – as sailors of ye olde used to call them, haha! I have pursued all possible locations and “normal” solutions, ranging from reading shark books, to watching all seven Sharknado movies in all 5040 different combinations, to attending shurry conventions, to roleplaying as a shark (and eventually getting fired from my cushy job at Goldman Sachs. Damn you, Greta.)
Despite my newfound… precarious, shall we say? Financial situation, I finally made a breakthrough when I took the law into my own hands and paid 27.99$, a hefty gas fee, and ridiculously expensive parking. Oh, Toronto Zoo, you may milk me dry of my finance, but how I love your inadequate security! Indeed, reader; my experiences as a shark at the Toronto Zoo are plentiful and wonderfully varied. It all started when the Toronto Zoo “agreed” to let me embark upon my shark journey, to reconnect with my more – well, primal instincts. It took countless nights of partaking in predatorial evasion of security guard personnel, disabling security systems, and feeding my brethren (sharks) at least one steak per day. After that, I was ready to start my life in the tank, and you can bet your purple tushy I dived right in.
Sharks are fascinating. They lead a wonderful existence in their wondrous corner of the world, sequestered in a tiny enclave away from screaming, hideous, humans. Underwater is my escape; I can’t hear security personnel or emergency teams yell at me from underwater. Instead, I focus on their beautiful fins, and their craggy teeth full of gore – of Mike, I believe was his name. I gaze into their dark, beady eyes, and see absolutely nothing in there. Do they have a single thought? Probably not. But then again, neither do I.
To fit right into the shark group dynamic (sharknamic?), I’ve blessed the sharks in my enclave with human names – Kylie, Sandy, Bramble, Helen, River, and the siblings James and Jackie (I don’t know if they’re actually siblings, you know how it is – they all look the same) – are just a few of them. They have accepted me as an honorary shark in their pack, much to the extreme dismay of literally everyone involved.
After observing them for a while, I noticed something perplexing: they’re all teenagers. The first thought that came to my head (I know I said I have no thoughts, but please make an exception this one time) is “gross.” I didn’t give up my comfy job as a Financial Analyst at Goldman Sachs to “shark” up (haha get it) with a bunch of teenage sharks. I wanted sharks that represented the real deal. The rugged, weird, fucked up, ate-their-sibling-in-the-womb-and-is-now-an-experienced-cannibal shark. But this world? It’s full of teenage bullshit, and I am so over it.
As the entire shark commune is aware of, I have first dibs on River. That shark is my man. He’s the one who I gaze at in adoration, and the one whose teeth I narrowly avoid when I inevitably escape his monstrous jaws. But Kylie is, pardon my rude language, an absolute cow. That 17 year old hussy was wiggling her dorsals at him, trying every trick in the shark hat (shat?) to bag my man. I’m mature enough to ignore it, since, you know, I’m a mature shark adult with a job and shit. But there’s only so much I can handle. I never signed up to fend off my future husband in sharkimony from juveniles.
Another thing: teenage sharks mean teenage bullshit, and Bramble and Sandy are out for blood. I’m not sure why, but they keep on beating the shit out of each other. There’s not much I can do about it, since, you know, I’m an adult, but it’s annoying how much they tear each other up. I’m pretty sure Bramble ripped off and ate Sandy’s arm once, but I’m not too concerned about that. Sandy has eaten three quarters of Bramble’s tail.
Anyways, I’m having the time of my life. I’m glad I used my job at Goldman Sachs to save up as much money as I could. Who else is going to buy steaks for my commune? If I don’t stop showing my worth, they’ll cannibalize me for their next meal. And after working at Goldman Sachs, I fully understand what it’s like to be cannibalized when I don’t show my worth.
My time as a financial analyst was one stage of my life. I have fond memories of getting into a flirty, kinky, S&M relationship with my employer during my PEY years (read The Cannon Toike VSC for that). But back then, my love was misplaced. I was so goddamn horny all the time, and it was all for naught. Channelling my horny energy into shark love has given me another view on life. I would totally let my shark commune (shammune?) cannibalize me in a heartbeat.
