I'm just gonna go be a Killer Whale

That's it. I'm done. Job search over. Where's the towel? It's thrown in. So now what?

Will I cop-out in any of the usual ways you ask? Join the Russian Circus? Marry a wealthy 80 year old investment banker? Move to New York under the pretense of becoming a method actress only to nab a job at Hooters and five roommates in a two bedroom apartment? Go to beauty school, drop out, develop a nasty meth habit and a cardboard box address on 6th and Madison with shoebox throw pillows?

Negatory.

I want to be a Killer Whale. Sure, you say it's impossible, but my mom and pop, and my old friend Mr Rogers said I could be anything dammit. And that's my choice. I think it's a fine one. And I think I'd be a great fit.

First off, I love team work, and I love being part of big family gatherings. So hunting parties? I got this. My veganish taste buds could totally develop a love for raw seal meat. Cute, chipper, innocent seal meat. 

Small price to pay really when you get to call a pod of Killer Whales family. The underwater version of "The Waltons",  Orcas hang out fo' life. As loyal as Lassie before the rabies, they have each others' backs, er, fins. You get plastic six-pack rings stuck on you? They'll find a way to get them off. You get stuck on a beach? They are not going to come get you since that's certain death, but they'll hang around off shore and "eeeeeeeek" out some encouragements.

You don't see that with people these days. Pretty sure if I got plastic trash stuck on my nose I'd get ridiculed, not rescued. Clearly I hang with the wrong species.

Secondly, I love the ocean. Seriously, love it, like most people. But I bet your bottom dollar the goal of those other people is to live NEAR the briny deep. I'd get to live IN IT. Who's laughing now? Huh? While you're watching from shore as I majestically leap into the air and dive down for however long Killer Whales can hold their breath and get to whine out weird sonar, know how you'll be feeling? Jealous, that's what.

Thirdly, come on every girl and gay guy child of the 90s. You still love Jesse from "Free Willy". I know I do. Snarky. Sandy wavy hair. Those hideous oversized sweaters. The fact that this kid could run around a coastal town and hijack boats and FREE WHALES HE'S BEFRIENDED with no parental supervision....that's everything on my ideal male checklist. And I could BE that whale he becomes BFF with. AND I could eat that doe-eyed chick with the bad cut-offs he's into, and blame it on sheer instinct. "Ooops did I eat her? Jeesh THAT'S embarrassing. I don't even LIKE scrawny, needy, stringy haired chicks. Sorry. Want me to make it up to you by leaping over you standing on a rock as you point upwards dramatically? Great."

Lastly, cards on the table. I am a messy eater. TERRIBLE. When I'm through with a meal, it looks like the aftermath caused by a mini table twister. There is carnage. And so many crumbs. Eating with me is like sitting down across from a hulking denture-wearing Hungarian at a liverwurst eating contest, only I'm messier. On land, this is sometimes problematic. In the sea....EVERYTHING FLOATS. I'd never drop ANY FOOD. I'd look like a classy lady all the time. Life complete.

So basically, this is happening. My farewell party will be next week at the aquarium. Please bring lots of Tuna and it's been nice knowing you, landlubbers.