The Painful Truth

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Oh you. The painful truth is, we were never meant to be. Don't look at me like that! You know that look of your's makes my heart flutter like fragile tissue paper in the gentlest breeze. With you effortlessly modelling that Bambi headshot, I almost useless completely become alskdjfoqwi. See, I can't even convey a legitimate sentence. My parents told me from the very start that you were wrong for me; they forbade our relationship. Pets and I were never to be.

That's not entirely true I guess. We did have some goldfish when I was oh so young and full of the most joyful innocence and naïvety. Although I think that they were a prime example of why pets and my family should never intervene. Like their living cousins that I currently feed at my work, those bobbing entities were a constant reminder of death. Fine, you're a mammal and your life span is notably longer than that of a goldfish but what on earth am I supposed to do when you die? Let's face it, the chances that I'll outlive you are high. What scares me is that your passing will occur after you've stolen my heart and embedded it within those knowing eyes. I will inevitably transform into a blubbering mess when you've kicked the bucket, and this will be exceedingly inconvenient as my life sucks balls already. Arggh teen angst.

You would just be a selfish bastard living off not only my emotional and physical wellbeing but also my financial resources. I cannot even entertain myself with the never-ending list of necessities that would have to be funded in order to keep you to an acceptable standard. Society frowns upon blatant animal cruelty and I would hardly find it within myself to subject you to my low financial security. I am a vegetarian darling; I see it as a given responsibility to care for animal kind to the best of my abilities. Oh you see what you've done? You've forced me to resort to the use of pet names. I would chortle at this puntastic exchange, but the painful truth is that I can't. I can't have a pet. I can't.