Okay, so, this weekend, I went camping with my mom's family by this lake in between Louisiana and Texas called Toledo Bend. In this lake, there's a ridiculous amount of fish that usually just bite the second you throw out a line. So, naturally, what we did this weekend was fish. And fish more. And fish more.

So my grandma had caught this little fish that was just big enough to keep and had apparently been keeping it in the bottom of the refrigerator for three days for no particular reason.

Today, as we're packing up to go home, she's waving the fish up in the air, asking if anyone wants the fish.

My uncle, dad, and grandpa are like, "We already cleaned up all the fish, why do you still have one?"

And she's just like, "I dunno, I forgot about it?"

So I'm sitting there on the porch, reading a book, minding my own business, when she throws the cold, slimy, dead fish into my lap and says, "Ashlynn, go throw it into the lake."

"...but it's dead."

"Okay? And? No one wants it, so get rid of it."

Five minutes later, I find myself by the dock, frozen dead fish in hand, watching the water slosh up against the banks. I look down at the fish, at its glassy eyes, and wonder to myself why it had to die if no one was gonna eat it. I feel a sudden rush of sadness. I just want to get this over with.

I don't mean to, but what was supposed to come out as a solemn, "Kumbaya," to pay my respects for the fish and a simple drop into the water, came out as a strangled screech, because as I threw the fish into the water, it skipped like a rock at least four times. 

At the sight of this, I burst out laughing, not believing that a fish would skip like that, but then I make eye contact with a five-year-old, staring at me from the cabin next door in horror, probably wondering why some random chick was screaming and skipping dead fish like rocks on the water like a maniac. 

And that's the story of how I creeped out the neighbor's kid today.

I'm a fish killer.