By Srihith Jarabana Once upon a time in a quaint little suburban home, there lived a stupid—and let me emphasize this again—a stupid goldfish named Sir Gilbert III, often referred to as just Gilly (stupid name too).
Even so, it was too fancy for his level of intelligence, which was in the ground floor of the
apartment he was kept in. Now, to be fair, goldfish are known for a lot of things (or aren’t, I don’t know a whole lot about them in all honesty), but having a memory longer than a few seconds is certainly not one of them. They are, to put it lightly, not the sharpest castle tops in the fish tank.
Okay, that was also really stupid, I’m just going to say, “Not the sharpest tool in the shed.”
But Gilly was different (apparently, anyway). I’m finding this out at the same time as you). He
was no ordinary goldfish (once again, this is according to my script). He was the Newton of the
physics world (virgin and all), the J. Robert Oppenheimer of the sea (nuclear bombs and all), and the gold standard of goldfish (gold and all?). You see, Gilly had an eidetic memory. He remembered everything, and when I say everything, I mean everything that ever happened to him. Let’s just say he’s not the type of goldfish to forget petty grudges like watching someone eat caviar (he thinks he’s a sturgeon).
In simple terms—terms that are far too basic for Gilly mind you, his life was one long never-
ending party, and he was the aquatic animal of honor. He'd swim around his humble glass
abode with a secret look in his eye, and if he could talk (like a Disney character I’d imagine),
he'd have yapped to his fellow fish with fairy-like tales cheaply made of on-sale cotton candy
and Spritopia. It looks like I have a few translated stories from his diary that Gilly would like me
to share with y’all (another term simplified because “you all” is too complicated):
Day 1: Another Insane Castle Robbery
Gilly's first memory at the ripe age of a week was a rather interesting one. He'd somehow managed to jump out of his bowl and flop his way across the living room. His poor owner, Mr.
Kirkwood had found him passed out under the couch. He describes the feeling of air akin to
cocaine, which, for the record, I don’t even know how he knows what that is or even what that
Day 42: The After Party
One evening, Mrs. Kirkwood had a few of her already very few friends over for a snotty dinner
party: the ones that the rich have in bad Hollywood movies. Gilly was just minding his business when he overheard that Mrs. Kirkwood had forgotten to buy the fancy wine she'd bragged about. Gilly drowned himself (because of course that's possible for underwater-breathing animals) to distract party guests while Mrs. Kirkwood snuck out to buy the wine. He's real like that.
Day 101: The Meow Incident
The Kirkwoods had a cat named Luna (also known as the most generic cat name) who'd been eyeing Gilly with a homicidal gleam ever since he arrived. One day, when Mr. Kirkwood wasn't looking, Luna lunged at Gilly's tank, claws ready for red (do fish have blood?). In an absolute mastermind of a move, Gilly swam toward a power outlet connected to his tank. Luna, somehow more dumb than a goldfish, electrocuted herself and died (weak). Gilly: 1, Luna: 0.
So, I suppose the lesson is that the next time you catch a glimpse of your pet goldfish and
dismiss it as a forgetful imbecile, remember the legend of Gilly. He was the goldfish who lived
(only without a cool-looking lightning scar). Or these stories could’ve been made up. We'll never know.