My Dorm Tank Is Basically a Funeral Home

My fish keep dying. At this point, I’m not even sad, I’m just embarrassed. The tank in my dorm has become a revolving door of tiny aquatic funerals.

I do everything right, allegedly. I buy the fancy flakes. I change the filter. I even googled “how not to kill your fish” at 2 a.m. like a desperate parent on WebMD. And still, they go belly-up on me like they’re auditioning for a Shakespeare play.

Maybe it’s the water. Maybe it’s my energy. Maybe it’s just that fish are weak. Nobody wants to say it, but they are. They can’t handle one pH shift, one weekend of mild neglect, one playlist of loud bedroom pop. Meanwhile, my roommate’s plant has survived three missed waterings, a spilled White Claw, and seasonal depression. Explain that.

The worst part is how it makes me look. Every time another one floats, I feel like people are judging me: If she can’t keep a goldfish alive, how is she supposed to keep herself alive? Relax. I’ve had at least three iced coffees today, I’m thriving.

Still, I keep replacing them. Because when the tank glows on my desk, it makes my dorm look less like a jail cell and more like an apartment in a French indie film. Visitors see the fish and think I’m delicate, nurturing, mysterious. They don’t know the truth: half the residents of that tank are buried in the quad, wrapped in napkins from the dining hall.

So yeah. My fish keep dying. It’s not cute. It’s not symbolic. It’s just the reality of being a college girl who wanted ambiance and got a body count instead.