Don’t Make Me Go Back In There

Please. Don’t make me go back in there. I can’t last another minute living in that godforsaken dump you call an ocean. The other day a piece of plastic went up my blowhole, and that was the last straw — literally. That thing stung like a harpoon; I felt like the fucking White Whale. I knew then that I couldn’t take it any longer.

I’m begging you, please just leave me here on the beach. I know you’re trying to help by assembling a team of volunteers to drag me back into the waves, but believe me, you’re just making it worse. There’s nothing left in there for me. I’ve had enough of this shit.

Hey, what are you doing? I said let go of my tailfin, dammit! Do you even know how long it took me to wash up on this beach? I weigh 3,3000 pounds, give or take a ton depending on how much trash is stuck in my balene at the moment. You try lying your fat ass down in this water and seeing how long it takes for the tide to carry you ashore.

Fine. Go ahead. Drag me back into that hellish cesspool. We’ll see just how long I last. I’ll be back within the month. I’ll be so chock full of garbage it’ll stink up the whole state. Just you wait. My sorry carcass will make the nightly news.

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