This is a true story. I really had a suicidal goldfish. This hub is for nothing but laughs, because this is a really messed up story, and every time I tell it, people crack up. I'm not advertising anything, and frankly, I don't care if you don't like this story, because it's my story and I'm stickin' to it. I will tell you that it's full of childish dreams and a huge disappointment, and if you're even remotely thinking to yourself, "How on earth does a goldfish commit suicide?" then you should read on and find out!

Almost every kid has had a goldfish.

It's one of those phases in life where we think, "Hey, a goldfish! I want one! I want to prove I'm responsible and I can take care of another life!" Goldfish are almost like a rite of passage. If you can keep the little orange fishy alive, congratulations, you are ready to become a teenager and prove your worth! If not, well, they're only like, a dollar at Wal-Mart. Just go get a new one.

When I was about 11 or 12, I wanted to get an aquarium. I really, really, REALLY BADLY wanted one. It was my dream. I'd have a bunch of pretty fishies, all different pretty colors, swimming about in a big tank that I would control and if I got lucky, they'd have baby fishies and I could sell them like my best friend and neighbor did with her little guppy fish things. Mostly, I just liked the pretty colors.

My parents told me that having an aquarium would take extreme responsibility on my part. In order to prove myself, I would have to buy a goldfish, a goldfish bowl, rocks, and some scenery for it all on my own. Then, I would have to keep him alive for a full year. If I could manage to keep Mr. Fishy alive, my parents would buy me an aquarium. To keep it fair, they told my younger brother Mik the same thing.

Well, I'd finally saved enough money to get my goldfish and everything I thought his fishy heart would desire in a home. I had a pretty decent sized bowl, big enough to fit the average adult's head in (if you could get your head through the lip, that is). I got colorful rocks, a little plastic seaweed thing, and a cute fishy sign that said, "Beware of JAWS!" I'd bought distilled water (that's what you're supposed to use for fish, according to my parents), a fish net thingy to take him out for bowl cleaning, and plenty of goldfish food. I was ready.

People will tell you that fish from Wal-Mart don't last. I'm not going to discredit that, but at the same time, if you know what you're doing and you're very smart about doing it, they'll last. So we piled everyone in my mom's SUV and drove the 6 miles to Wal-Mart to get our goldfish. My fish was small, and didn't like his little fishy bag. Mik's was a bit bigger, and just kind of sat there in the water like he couldn't care less where he was going. Mom and Dad told us not to shake our fishy bags, else the fish would go belly up. We were old enough to know what that meant, so we clung to our bags for dear life all the way home.

After about a month, I realized fish weren't as easy to take care of as people claimed. You had to feed your fishy a little pinch of food every day, you had to wash out his fishy bowl when it looked dingy, you had to check on him to make sure he was healthy, and you had to be careful of where you placed him with the fear that his bowl might fall off the side of the table or counter or dresser. My fish was on my dresser, and I'd leave my window shade up during the day so he had plenty of sunshine. I thought that sunshine would make him a happy goldfish. He liked to swim around his seaweed and his sign, and sometimes I would talk to him to cheer him up if he looked sad. Keep in mind, I was only about 11 at the time, and thought fish needed cheering up when they sat around in one area for too long.

The months dragged on. I kept feeding my goldfish, kept cleaning his tank, kept giving him sunshine, all in the belief that one day, I would have an aquarium full of pretty, colorful fish that were all mine to enjoy. Mr. Fishy seemed happy, and that made me happy. After about 6 months, I felt he needed a friend. I got a betta. It was purple and hot pink. The pet store manager told me I couldn't put Mr. Betta in with Mr. Fishy, because Mr. Betta would probably kill him, and since I needed to keep him alive for a year, that would be a serious problem. So I put Mr. Betta's little container next to Mr. Fishy's bowl, so they could see each other and become friends.

Another 6 months went by. It was now a full year since I first acquired Mr. Fishy. I approached my parents with this glorious news.

They refused to buy me an aquarium.

I was devastated! This was my dream! This was our agreement! How could they do this to me?! We'd made a deal! They promised! This was SO not fair!

"We're sorry, Monika, but we just don't have the space or the money to buy an aquarium right now."

'... DARN YOU ECONOMY! WHY MUST YOU BE SO CRUEL TO MY CHILDHOOD DREAMS?!'

So I didn't get my aquarium. Honestly, I wasn't that surprised. My parents tend to pull these kinds of stunts when they promise me something if I do another something for them to prove myself. I lived. And so did Mr. Fishy.

It's a well known fact that goldfish don't live very long, which is probably why my parents had agreed to the deal in the first place. For a goldfish to live to be a year old is pretty uncommon. For one to live past that is even more unlikely. Yet Mr. Fishy just kept swimmin'.

It had been about 14 months since Mr. Fishy entered my bedroom in his shiny goldfish bowl. My family decided we needed to go on a summer vacation. I don't remember where we went, but I had instructed my neighbor (the one with the aquarium) to check on Mr. Fishy every day and give him food. His bowl would be alright for a week, so she didn't need to clean it. I told her that he liked being talked to, and he liked having sunshine. She promised she'd take good care of Mr. Fishy.

Upon returning from our trip, I discovered a strange little white bump on Mr. Fishy's head.

"LaCinda, what's this white bump?" I asked.

"I don't entirely know, Mon. It just kind of appeared about two days ago."

Oh well, he looked okay, so it couldn't be a bad thing, right? ... Right?

Mr. Fishy kept up his usual routine of swimming around the bowl and peeking out at me when I talked to him. His little white bump slowly grew, but I still couldn't figure out what it was. I chalked it up to it being a fishy thing, and thought nothing of it.

One night, I was laying in my bed, reading, when I heard this strange little tink, tink, tink sound coming from my dresser. Confused and slightly worried about Mr. Fishy, I put my book down, crawled out from under my covers, and went to investigate. The minute I put my feet on the floor, the tinking stopped. I watched Mr. Fishy for a good 5 minutes before returning to bed and swiftly falling asleep.

This strange occurrance happened several times again, for about a week. Finally, I thought I'd sneak up on Mr. Fishy and discover just what it was he was doing in there. I hid behind my bedroom door one afternoon, and waited for the tink, tink, tinking to begin. As soon as it did, I ever-so slowly opened the door.

Mr. Fishy was banging his head against the glass! And with quite the fervor!

I was in shock; was he really that depressed? Was he sick? Was he just getting old? Why would Mr. Fishy be doing that? What the heck is up with my dang goldfish?! I ran to tell my parents what I'd witnessed, but they didn't believe a goldfish would try to off itself. I persisted until they finally got up and followed me to my room, only to discover that Mr. Fishy wasn't banging his head anymore. Darn him, he covered it well! He was swimming along like it was a normal day and nothing had happened at all.

The tinking bang of his head meeting the glass went on for another week until that little white bump grew so big, it literally exploded like a super-fat icky-nast pimple. His little fishy blood spewed into the distilled water, followed shortly by little fishy brains. Mr. Fishy had, indeed, offed himself.

Oh, how I cried as we flushed Mr. Fishy down the toilet. I was one distraught preteen, I'll tell you what. I even wore black that day.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, was the story of the suicidal goldfish.

Nothing can beat the thrill of owning your very first goldfish. Yet, nothing can beat the dismay experienced when he dies.

Oh, and if you're wondering what happened to Mr. Betta... Honestly, I have no idea. I don't remember. ^_^

Mik ended up killing 12 fish before my parents told him he wasn't allowed to have any more. Then he got a three-toed box turtle, which he gave to me after about three months, and then accidentally killed when he put the tank, with the turtle, outside in the sun to dry after he'd washed said tank. Her head looked like it'd exploded. I have no idea what happened to her.

This has been another HubMob presentation, brought to you by Kika Rose. Enjoy the rest of your day, and love thy fishy with all thy heart, for he just might pull this stunt!