I just got some new shoes that have fairly thick soles, and they make me a bit taller than I’m used to. I’m an even 6’0” to begin with so it’s kind of unfamiliar to notice the extra height since I’m already usually with the taller half of people in a room.

Being a bit taller was an interesting enough shift in perspective that I wondered hypothetically what wearing some serious disco platform boots would be like. That led inevitably to remembering those boots with goldfish in the heels, and I realized maybe for the first time how horrible those things actually were, especially for the goldfish. (Assuming that they were actual, live goldfish at some point.I think they were?)

I mean, imagine that you’re a goldfish. You’re swimming around in your bowl or tank. Maybe you’re with friends and you spend your days gliding around and enjoying the silent company, or you’re alone in a bowl and enjoy life a life of quiet contemplation.

Then one day, disco shows up.

“Knock, knock.”

“Uh, who is it?”

“DISCO, MOTHERFUCKER!!!”

And you get scooped up and stuck in transparent-walled solitary for the remainder of your short, horrible life. Each footstep is an assault, and your nights are spent in the triple horror of laser-lightshow dancing, nonstop muffled Bee Gees singles, and the later spectacle of sweaty unshaved cocaine-fueled sexytimes witnessed from the smoky-polyester-clothes-strewn floor, further distorted by the curved lucite walls of the hell you’re stuck in.

Then I realized that nature works kind of the same way. Like springtime where I live, you’ll always get an early taste of nice weather in February.

Nature’s like, “Hey trees, it’s kind of nice out, why don’t you bloom or something?”

The trees are like, “Naw, I think we’ll just hang out until it’s a little warmer.”

“But it’s already nice! It’ll probably be like this for a while.”

“Word? OK, I guess I’ll bloom then.”

The trees bloom, and then nature’s like, “Knock knock.”

The trees answer, “Who’s there?”

Nature goes, “NATURE, MOTHERFUCKERS!!!” and then stone cold kills all the blossoms with snow or frost, and the trees are like, “Dude.” (But they get fooled every year, so it’s sort of their fault too.)