For some people, death or a breakup will send them into a fit of depression. For me, it’s lobsters.
And not just any lobsters … the lobsters at Red Lobster.
I mean, have you ever really LOOKED at them? With the giant glass case and the bubbles trickling toward the top. And their claws bound together, with blue-and-pink-and-yellow rubber bands.
Just sitting there, waiting to be boiled to death.
What kind of way is that to die?
If I was a lobster at Red Lobster, I’d probably kill myself, first.
And so, as I sat there that Friday night—waiting for the hostess to call my name—I just became SO DEPRESSED.
I thought about, as a kid, how the lobsters used to excite me. I’d get all ADHD on my parents, screaming about “the lobsters! the lobsters!” But that was before I really knew.
And then, I had probably worst conversation in the HISTORY of conversations, with my mother.
It kinda went something like this:
Me: “Do you think the lobsters know?”
My mom: “Know what?”
Me: “You know.”
My mom: “Shari, I really don’t want to talk about the lobsters.”
I’m just so glad I don’t like lobster. I ordered chicken that night. And it’s probably a good thing I don’t live in some remote, Yiddish town in Russia.
Because I’d be seriously screwed.
[P.S. Happy Valentine’s Day!]