Hm. Someone that statement lacks the dramatic quality of Ewan McGregor's in Moulin Rouge. "This story . . . is about . . . love." Of course, it always helps to have a Scottish accent. And possibly to be a movie star. So, imagine I am Ewan McGregor:

"This entry . . . is about . . . fish."

I have a fish, a beautiful red betta named Bob. (Silent Bob, actually, of Kevin Smith fame . . . a somewhat lesser known movie persona.) Bob used to belong to my Aunt Phyllis, but she gave him to me when she discovered that fish are the only pets allowed at ASMS, the high school I will be attending in the fall. And she was rather tired of taking care of him.

Silent Bob was formerly known as Pepper (Red Hot Chili, I presume). However, one of the privileges of ownership is the right to name, which I took full advantage of. My mother still insists on calling him Fred. Or Phred. Phred the Phish. Interesting, but I really prefer naming my pets after fictional, and dubious, sages.

Sometimes I worry about Bob, as he is displaying masochist tendencies by ramming his head into the side of his bowl to get attention, or maybe just food. Or maybe they're the same thing. Who knows with fish?

I had a goldfish named Kathleen when I was little. She was largely unremarkable, although she did once change colors while we were on a family vacation. No really, I swear. No one had been in the house the whole time, and she changed colors. Is this an example of little-known fish magic, or just some sort of parental trick to keep my young mind from grief? The world may never know.

I saw a movie once called A Fish Called Wanda. It was not, in fact, about fish, but rather a bunch of British people with psychological problems at least as bad as Bob's. (Well, a fish by the name of Wanda did make an appearance, but she was soon eaten by one of the psychopaths . . . tragic.) Being British, the movie was quite funny, though not quite so much as Monty Python and the Holy Grail.

We studied about fish in biology. They have two-chambered hearts. And gills where gas exchange takes place. Wow.

And . . . um . . . that about wraps up my knowledge of fish. I hope you enjoyed this intellectual journey into the wide world of "You wrote about what? Are you nuts? Really, girl, who cares about fish?"

I care about fish. I love my fish.

So you see, this story . . . is about . . . love, after all.