I have decided to keep this journal of my day-to-day activities, perhaps for future generations (over 300 eggs erupted from Mother's abdomen just this morning!) to enjoy; or perhaps just to keep from going crazy in this glass and water hell that is my home.
The mere task of writing here is next to impossible. First of all, the paper keeps getting soggy. (Thus creating a double-meaning for "waterlog"?)
Second, of course, is I have no brain, but rather mere ganglia; that is, groupings of nerves that send out messages telling my body eat or swim or, in my case, keep a journal.
Something tells me I lucked out in the ganglia department. Well, I guess that's all for today.
Oh, Kitty, I have so much to say! I don't want to be just another branchiopod, chasing the beam of some flashlight! ----
Dear Waterlog, It's so hard to think of things to write about. Probably partly because my brain is in my abdomen. Since I wrote two weeks ago, nearly one-tenth of my life expectancy has passed. I guess I need to write faster if I hope to develop a body of work.
And speaking of developing bodies! I am eight times bigger now! Mother said it looked like I had grown a foot and I told her we have a spine with filtrating ventricles, but no feet. She said it was a figure of speech and I said we used the metric system anyway, and she told me to watch my smart mouth, which I can, thanks to my extended eyes, and I told her to stop bossing me, she wasn't the Queen, and she reminded me that she is the Queen, and that I was now grounded. Big whoop I thought. Grounded from what? Looking out of the mason jar? Swimming in never-ending circles? Observing my own digestion through my semi-transparent body?
But she meant grounded. On the ground. So, as I write this, dear Waterlog, I am floundering on the tiny plastic island, gasping for oxygen. At least it keeps the paper dry. I'll let you know how it turns out.