They’ll miss the good old days. Sometimes.

I had a bizarre dream about fishing.

We were fishing at a river. I can’t recall who else was with me, but we sat by that river all day long and fished. My grandpa appeared out of nowhere and tried to tell us what to do, but all I said was “Grandpa, look in the back of our truck.”

Lo and behold, there were hundreds of fish writhing around. Our fishing was remarkably fruitful.

I then said, “I think most of them are female and pregnant, too.”

Grandpa pulled out his pocketknife and picked up a fish. It was bloated in its pregnancy, and almost appeared to be bursting at the belly. He didn’t even have to make an incision. A sac of eggs just slid out.

It was actually very gross and slimy.

When I woke up, I had a craving for fish eggs the way my grandpa would cook them. Back when I was a child, he liked to cook his fish in a soup, but it wasn’t always sinigang. And he would always cook the egg sac with the soup. It traditionally became my meal, and I would eat it with steamed rice and the soup. My grandpa hasn’t cooked for me in years.

I still can’t remember who I was fishing with. Someone close to me, obviously. I enjoy fishing with friends simply because it gives us a long opportunity to talk.


Well, I ought to get ready for class, and our first anthro test.


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