When I was initially transformed into a repulsive sea polyp by Ursula the Sea Witch, I admit to being more than a little shocked. One moment I was a carefree mer-person swimming and siren-singing; the next I was a hideous sea plant held captive in an undersea lair. Still, I knew I had to come to terms with my plight if I was going to survive. So instead of falling into despair and hopelessly waiting for her spell to break, I vowed to focus my energy on completing personal projects.
But now, eight weeks later, I am starting to feel guilty about not using my time spent cursed more productively.
Did you know that Shakespeare wrote Twelfth Night after being turned into a barnacle? If he could do that, certainly I could make the most of my petrifying existence twisted into a doomed creature in an aquatic soul-prison, over-lorded by a wicked sea witch to work on my blog about True Crime.
Sure, I’m still a bit traumatized from being swindled by a nefarious octopus-woman. I should have never made that deal with her, and now my twisted vegetative-state only serves as a lonely, desolate warning to others. But I could do a bit of exercise at least! I hate to admit it, but previous to this curse, I HAD been longing to be thinner. Now I have all the time in the world (quite literally as my binding contract with Ursula stipulates that my soul is hers from now until the end of eternity), so I feel bad I haven’t managed yet to do even some minimal core work, like planking.
I realize that I’m entombed alive in sea foliage because I signed over my soul on a supernatural glowing scroll, using an enchanted fish skeleton as a pen. But I would’ve thought I’d use my time in deep-depressive reflection to learn something new. A language perhaps, I’ve always wanted to learn to speak squid. I mean, here I am at the contemplative bottom of the earth, fathoms under the sea, eternally screaming silently, and I can’t even find the motivation to download Squidlingo.
Look, I know 2020 has raked us all across the coals. I spend a lot of time gaping my gruesome new mouth open and shut, worried about the tragedies that have befallen mer-people unluckier than myself. But couldn’t I at least bake something? My nearby fellow anathematized-polyps are snagging sea-yeast as it floats buy, using it to bake the most beautiful sourdough. How am I supposed to make the most of being rooted to the sea floor, my former appendages consolidated into a cylindrical plant shape in this unholy garden of the damned, if I can’t even be bothered to IG some bread rolls?
Just because I’m a poor unfortunate soul, doesn’t mean I have to feel sorry for myself. The world is my oyster! Oysters, of course, have more freedom than me right now, as again, I’m trapped on the ocean floor in a witch’s lair in the form of a mournful sea-anemone, but I still have so many options. As an infamous woman once said, “Life’s full of tough choices, innit?” And here I am, indecisive, doing nothing, my single appendage swaying in the cursed currents, surrounded by the moaning agony of my fellow-trapped souls.
Maybe I should start a podcast.