A hair-brained idea.

I am currently in the middle of an existential crisis.  Why you ask?  Where is my life going?  I do not know.  Does my life at its current stage have any meaning whatsoever? 

I am struggling between a few completely different directions in which my life could go.  Do I want to have the wonderfully artistic lifestyle of which I have always dreamt (being a writer)?  Or do I want to be the power suit wearing, ball busting, career woman I know that I could be?  Or should I choose my dream of dreams: teaching preschool (eating canned beans for dinner and living in a cardboard box, literally)?  This is my crisis.  Where is my life going?!?!!?!?!?!

Am I the only one feeling this way?  Hello out there…….. I feel like I’m floating in outer space yelling into the blackness that is the universe.  Can anyone hear me?

Since my whole “Writing for Children” plan of graduate school didn’t work out I’m looking elsewhere.  I never believed that I would say this, but I’m thinking about going to the University of Arkansas: the old family stomping grounds.  Turns out they have a really great creative writing program so I’m going to test the waters.

Every time I go to Fayetteville I feel as if I am somehow more connected to my father.  He went to Arkansas and apparently was quite the party animal.  Maybe that’s where I get it (even though I didn’t go out this weekend, sleeping is higher on my list of things to do).  One of my favorite things to do is hear of stories of crazy things my dad did whilst living the collegiate life.

My Mom lived there too supporting her loser of an ex-husband through law school.  She got lucky meeting my dad because from what I heard around town, this guy was a real champ.  And by champ I mean Freak with a capital F.  Not to mention a lying, cheating, adulterer.  But that's neither here not there. 

My Mom has thousands of interesting stories from when she was between men (i.e. time between her ex and my dad) but one of my favorites is this one (this is for you, Charlotte):

This huge creep asked my Mom on a date.  Being the lady that she is, she accepted (I wouldn’t have).  Before the date, one of her friend’s husband’s came and knocked on her classroom door (she taught sixth grade) and told her that this fine specimen wanted to take her out to a Razorback game (woo pig sooie) and had just bought a new leather flight jacket.  Not only is being single after 9 years and 49 weeks of marriage bad enough, this guy was awful, just awful.  Clearly.  That night, when my Mom gets home from school her phone is ringing.  It’s Tommy.  He says, “So, I heard you want to go out with me.”  Wow.  Then he continues, “I want to take you out.”  Mom says, “That would be nice, Tommy.  I would like that sometime.” 

“No, I want to take you out tonight.” 

“Well, I’m sorry but I teach a class until 9 tonight.”

“I’ll pick you up at 9:15.”

 So this guy rolls up in one of those half truck half car, you know what I’m talking about.  He asks Mom if she likes his jacket.  Before she knows what is happening, they are at Shoney’s.  What a wonderful and romantic place for a date, right?  He tells her she can order anything she wants.  Gee, thanks.  What a big spender.  The waitress comes over says hello and asks, “Would you like the usual?”  The manager then comes over and Tommy stands up.  They take turns looking at my Mom until Tommy says, “Isn’t she beautiful?” he says about my Mom.  Sweet, but creepy.  Then, he holds his bangs up and says, “Can you tell I’ve had a hair transplant?”  My Mom relates his head to that of a Barbie Doll. 

And that, my friends, is why to never date a man with hair plugs. 

Should we go to Lynwood Correctional Facility tonight or Nobu?

I haven’t always had a problem with authority; it only blossomed when I developed a bit of an attitude.  Puberty wasn’t good to me.  I was given a pimply face, a chunky exterior, and a sizzling attitude.  In retrospect, I feel horribly bad for my parents.  I was such a bitch, simply put. 

There is where it all began.

My problems with authority have only gotten worse with age.  As my mental capacity increases, so does my attitude.  Sometimes I think I know more than other people and that seems to be a problem.  I am what I like to call feisty.  A feisty feline.  I was never really into the whole team sports thing and then I really wasn’t once the terrible teens arrived.  I have never liked it when someone told me what to do and they weren’t willing to do the same.  This especially goes for physical activity.  I once told my tennis coach to run a mile and then I would.  Literally.  Then he threw a tennis ball at the back of my head.  He was a ginger, enough said.

I’m a stubborn gal and when someone tells me that I can’t do something, it makes me want to do it more.  Just call me Scarlett O.

Being in a sorority doesn’t help with my stick-it-to-de-man-neosis.  When they tell me to do something I always want to do the complete opposite.  Sometimes I am able to drown out this voice but sometimes I cannot.  Sometimes I feel a magnetic pull to do the exact opposite of what those in charge tell me to do.  Why is this?  Maybe I am a rebel…

Through my rebellious ways, I feel as if Lindsay Lohan is a child after my own heart.  She just can’t seem to follow the rules, can she?  What is so difficult about not drinking alcohol when there is an alcohol-monitoring bracelet on your ankle; an anklet, if you will.  Oh, that’s right, I forgot, she’s an alcoholic.  If I pulled all the shenanigans that she has pulled in the past few years, you better believe my tail feathers would be locked up in a sobriety tank. 

What’s annoying about the whole Lindsay Lohan thing is that her parents blame each other instead of blaming the culprit: Linz herself.  It really isn’t difficult to not do cocaine.  Believe me, I’ve mastered 21 years of staying away from it.  Poor Lindsay just doesn’t know when to stop.  It all went downhill after The Parent Trap.  A smashing film that I still know every line to.

I will give Lindsay the benefit that her parents are both crazier than two parakeets locked up in a cage together.  Did you ever watch that show about Lindsay’s family on E!?  I feel bad for the brother.  He seemed quasi-normal and the rest of them need to be locked up.  I feel as if Lindsay is going in the Britney direction of things and I think we all remember how that ended.  Bald-headed and baby-less.

I also feel a semblance of a kinship with Alexis Neiers from E!’s Pretty Wild.  The girl just can’t seem to get a break.  Actually, scratch that.  She can’t get a break because she burgled Orlando Bloom’s home and got caught.  Um, DUH!  It is clear that these girls are exactly the next Bronte sisters, but I would have thought she was smarter than that. 

The best part about the Alexis Neiers saga is that she exclaims how innocent she is, time and time again.  This confuses me since she was in jail for one month, next to our gal pal Lindz.  Why must you not tell the truth Alexis?  Maybe she’s scared her sexy Spaniard of a lover will jump ship.  On the show, though, he didn’t seem to mind her future jailbird status, which is questionable. 

Has everyone in LA been to that jail?  I almost feel left out... ALMOST.

Lil Wayne, wanna be my boyfriend?

I have recently (in the past 3 years of college…I’ve been in college for 3 years?!!) developed a passion, nay, an obsession for rap music.  The other day on VH1 I saw an interview with a producer in the music biz.  He said that there is a completely new demographic that has developed for the rap/hip-hop genre: white kids.

21 year old, rhythmically challenged, booty shakin’ white girls.  This would mean: me.  I have never been much of a dancer, which I think is because I’m so tall and have such tiny feet (5’8”, size 6 shoe).  You know how horses sometimes get tangled within their own feet?  That’s me.  I was voted the least likely to know every word to “I’m Single” by Lil Wayne on Friday night by my friends.  But guess what?  I did.

I believe my obsession with rap music and all that it entails began my sophomore year of college when we were told that T.I. would be going to jail.  I didn’t really think anything of it until I started watching his show on MTV, “T.I.’s Road to Redemption.”  What a heart melter that show was.  I may or may not have cried once or twice. 

T.I. was arrested and sentenced to hardcore jail time because cops (aka high school heroes looking for balls to bust) found a few guns in his house.  Ok, there were more than a few guns but that doesn’t matter.  What matters is the story.  After a late night bar brawl in Cincinnati, some hardcore dudes followed T.I. and his besties in a bit of a car chase.  The bad guys were shooting guns in T.I.’s direction.  They were all ducking and covering but a few of the bullets hit Philant Johnson, aka Phil.  Phillly was T.I.’s BFF, personal assistant, AND a worker for Grand Hustle Records. 

T.I. became obsessed with keeping his friends and family safe after this horrible tragedy.  I know he shouldn’t have had the guns, but what’s a boy to do?  He was trying to keep his children and fiancé safe!  In addition to his 1,000 hours of community service, T.I. did 864 extra hours through his television show.

Guess where T.I. was in jail?  Forrest City, Arkansas.  This is a town that is only an hour or so from my hometown.  I begged my parents to let me go see him to no avail.  I wonder if I had just walked in there they would have let me chat with him.  I also though about writing him a letter.  “Dear T.I., I’m sorry you’re in jail but at least you aren’t Dead and Gone.  I hope they let you do Whatever You Like.  I hope when you get out of jail you can still Live Your Life.”  I never wrote this letter but have always been pleased with how clever I am.  He was in the federal, white collar prison so I’m pretty sure he did fine.

To further my obsession, a few weeks ago I watched the Behind the Music: Lil Wayne.  Oh. My. God.  Even though he’s a little shorty (I have a HUGE problem with short men, mainly because I tower over them and it’s awkward) he’s a cutie with a booty.  I could probably give you a play by play of the whole show.  He loves his weed, that’s for sure.  He was sucking on a bleezy aka a blunt the whole time.  He also discussed his love for purple drank, purple sprite, or sizurp aka cough syrup in a cup.  “You shouldn’t care what’s in my cup.  It doesn’t matter if it’s heroine in there.  It’s my cup.” 

What is so amazing to be about Lil Weezy is that he doesn’t write any of his lyrics down!  He used to, until he realized he was too good for those shenanigans.  The last time he wrote anything down, he recorded every lyric he had written in his notebook at the time.  Supposedly on the tape you can hear him ripping the pages out of his notebook as he continuously rapped for 45 minutes.  Holy balls, that is a long time.  After this, he never wrote anything down. 

For the love of everything sacred, even if you don’t like rap music, please listen to at least one of his songs.  He doesn’t write anything down.  Do you get that?!  He is a true artist.  He just pulls these amazing and sometimes hilarious phrases out of his head.  Might I make a suggestion of which songs to try out?  My faves are: A Milli (which Jake called A Thousand), Mr. Carter, Lollipop(Remix), and I particularly love his No Ceilings Mixtape of which my favorite tune is his re-do of I’ve Got a Feeling by the Black Eyed Peas. 

“Party on the beach,

Pa - party on the beach,

Party animal baby let me of the leash,

I got my weed from the west,

My pills from the east,

And 2 bottles of goose that's geese.”

He’s funny and what’s even better about Lil Wayne is that he knows just how clever he is.  Sometimes he even laughs.  I picture him being like, “Yeah, I’m that good.”  I wonder what Lil Wayne would say if he saw June and I getting ready to go out while listening to his tunes.  She throws out her favorite lines here and there while I virtually quote his every line.  I think he would laugh and think we’re awesomely cool ladies.  He might even take us out for a little drinkie.

“I was drinking when I came

When I got here I did the same

I don’t like beer I like champagne

So cheers to Lil Wayne.”

I like champagne too, Lil Wayne, I have a bottle in my fridge.  Wanna come over for a drink?  I’ll pop some champagne like we won the championship game.  Cause I ball hard, no bitch we ball harder. 

For Susan.

One year ago today we lost an angel that was bestowed to us on earth: Susan.  People say it gets easier with time, I find it gets more difficult.  With every milestone I find myself silently wishing, “I wish Susan were here.”  Sometimes I’m sad, sometimes I’m angry.  Why my friend?  Why did she have to be the one that was taken? 

I have come to peace with the fact that I will never know what truly happened that fateful night.  All I can do is miss her and remember her.  Susan’s mom told us to never forget her… Is that even possible?  I don’t think so.  She was the light of our lives.

The day that Susan died my wonderful saint of a godmother called me.  This is what she said: “Anna, maybe God knew that Susan wasn’t going to have a long life.  Maybe he knew that she would be gone before it was her time.  He knew this and he wanted to let her meet and influence as many people as she could while she was still here.  Even though it was a short time with her, He wanted you to have that special time.”  I think she was right.

This is for her…

For Susan

            Her lips came together in the middle like a heart.  The outside of her lips curled upwards so it always looked like she was smiling, even when she wasn’t.  The color on her lips was always the same, a color that was like a hybrid between a peach bred with a coral.  It was her color.  Her skin was always a deep golden, even in January.  Some said it was her heart showing through her skin, others said she was just that beautiful. 

            Susan was everyone’s best friend, until she wasn’t anymore.  Until she wasn’t anything anymore. 

            Susan liked to dance and smile.  But more than anything she liked to love.  She loved him and she loved them.  All of them.  She showed her love like she showed her teeth when she smiled, wide and unafraid.  She wasn’t afraid to tell someone that she loved them.  In fact, she told everyone quite often.  If they didn’t say it back, she said it again, just to make sure they heard. 

            It was the summer.  The air was hot and thick like summers in Mississippi always are.  They baked in the sun so they could look like her: warm-skinned and glowing.  They roasted, sticky and wet.  They talked about their loves found and loves lost.  They didn’t cry, they just laughed.  They couldn’t cry, everything was too perfect. 

            They danced at night and laughed in the morning, remembering the beauty in their lives.  They ate pizza as if it had no calories, and laughed out loud.  Then they didn’t laugh anymore.

            The end of summer was near and they felt it.  It was their last bit of excitement before it all began again.  They lived harder than they ever had and knew it was all about to change.  They knew it was the best summer they would have for some time.  They took it all in, danced until their feet throbbed and laughed until their bellies ached.

            They all cried, some softly weeping, some loudly sobbing.  He sat with the family, where she wanted him to be.  They didn’t understand but they cried anyway.  It smelled of the roses they brought.  They were white.  She didn’t get to see them.

            Her parents stared at the casket before them as the tears flowed, just as they had before.  They had done it all before.  They were numb.

            They ate for the first time since it happened.  The ladies cooked them lunch.  None of them looked the way they thought they did.  Mascara slipping sideways.  They said “thank you” and left.  Where were they to go?  What were they to do?  No one knew.  They just drove.

            They cried for her.  They danced for her.  They sang for her.  They remembered her.  For a year there was a lump in their throats.  They tried to go on living, but wished she were there every moment.

            Susan was everyone’s best friend.

My wish.

I have come to a sad but true realization today: no one will ever love me as much as my parents do.  As much as I wish everyone loved me, it has become quite clear to me that they do not.  I like to say that I had an abnormal childhood- an abnormally awesome childhood.  My parents gave me everything I needed and more.  I couldn’t have asked for anything better.  They fostered my emotional, physical, and spiritual growth.  I’m pretty sure I was the luckiest and happiest kid alive.

I’m still lucky when it comes to my parents.  When I ask them for advice, they give it to me.  They don’t throw around possible answers, they are straight shooters, always have been, always will be.  They are not condescending to me and have always comforted me in my many moments of grief and confusion.  They have always told me to do what makes me happy, so many children are not given that opportunity.  I have faced very few restraints and have taken advantage of all the blessings they have bestowed upon me.  They have given me the tools to succeed.

But how could anyone love me as much as my parents?  They have loved me from my first moment on this earth and every day since then.  They have watched me grow and held my hand along the way.  Sometimes I wonder if anyone understands me as my parents do.  I have so many different facets to who I am as a person that sometimes it is difficult for one person to see every side.  I’m a dreamer, a thinker, a lover, a crier, a laugher, a writer, a reader, a trier, a dancer, a singer, a composer, a prayer, an eater, a swimmer, a listener, an artist… so many more things, too.  I don’t want someone to write me off as just one of these things.

For someone so young, I have seen a lot of love.  I have had lots of relationships that have allowed me to understand and develop different types of love.  I have felt the love of a sister and the love of a friend.  Sometimes these roles can be interchangeable.  I know it sounds silly, but being in a sorority has given me hundreds of friends that I never would have met.  It has led me to my best friends in college.  They love me for me, and that is something that is hard to find.  If you are against the greek system, that’s fine.  I only ask that you respect how it has helped me in my life overcome many of the personal battles I have faced.  I have felt the love of family and parents.  I have felt the powerful love of lovers, old and new.  I knew what soul mates looked like before I was 7.  What wonderful examples I was given.  Maybe that’s why I have always looked for so many distinct qualities in a man until I have found one that fulfills each and every one of my standards.

When I was in high school and struggling with boy problems mixed with friend problems, my mom told me, “Anna, this is the first time in your life that everyone hasn’t loved you for exactly who you are.”  Even after her words of wisdom I still struggle with my insecurities when I feel as if people do not like, or even love me.  So, dear reader, this is just one more insight to my life that you may not have known.  Please respect and take into consideration my words I have used to describe myself.  This is not required reading.  It is meant for a personal insight into my persona.

Ever since I was a little girl I have been sensitive.  Whenever I am criticized I can’t help but burst into tears.  Once, in fourth grade, I got a math problem wrong.  My teacher corrected me and my eyes welled with tears.  I couldn’t stand to be unsuccessful; I still can’t. 

I have always been scared and I always will be.  I was a bit of a nervous child and I am a nervous adult.  All I want in life is to be successful; successful in love, careers, happiness, and my relationships.  When I get close to the border of unsuccessfulness I become panic-stricken and go as far from that border as I can. 

I can wish all I want that everyone would love me as my parents do, but that doesn’t mean it will come true.  Perhaps in the end, those that do not understand me may make an effort to do otherwise.  Thanks for reading.

Turns out we're prettier, funnier, and we've got cute accents.

My dear friends, where am I even to begin?  What an educational week/weekend I had on my cross-country excursion to Boston.  For starters, my mom is hilarious to travel with.  She has recently developed low-level hearing problems, which makes it unable for her to hear/understand those with thick accents.  I was her translator.  She also has a tendency of walking right into homeless folks or those trying to sell useless items.  She isn’t intentionally doing these things; she is usually looking elsewhere.  When such an event occurs I am forced to act as her personal bodyguard and pull her away from the scene.

We all know the reason I went to Boston was to interview for my former dream graduate school. I am going to keep the name of the school anonymous to preserve the dignity and reputation of the school.  I have a lot of formers: former school, former love of my life, former car, former friends, former dreams… all of which I have been able to replace successfully.  Well, it looks like I’ll be replacing the former graduate school of my dreams.  Let’s just say… it didn’t exactly go as planned.

It was obvious that I was extremely nervous for said interview; I nearly tinkled my pants on several occasions.  I was first to meet with the program director for the course and the woman-like character that would be my primary professor.  When I entered her office she was sitting at her desk eating… get ready for it… cool whip.  Out of the bin.  I say bin because that’s exactly what it was.  It was more than just a container.  She was also eating yogurt, which I have a really big problem with.  It’s sour milk, that’s all it is.  Vomit.  Might I also add that she was not Twiggy.  Quite the opposite, in fact.  Cool whip?  Probably not the smartest choice.

Our interview began in the opposite way I expected.  “Let’s start off with some questions you have for me,” she said.  I soon realized there were not going to be reciprocal questions.  I had to think up good questions, and I had to do it fast.  Good thing all that studying I did (about myself) for this damn interview paid off…

Question after question I asked her.  She was quite rude and oftentimes answered with what “you have” to do to even be considered for the program.  She took her time explaining to me all the reasons I was not going to be accepted. 

“You should not consider our program if:

you haven’t ever written a thesis (are you kidding?!)

you haven’t had an extensive background in children’s literature

you haven’t been published

you haven’t written a good admissions essay

you want to primarily be published.”

There are so many more things she said, if only I could remember.

“I don’t care if you’re good with kids, that doesn’t matter.  We don’t care,” she said.

This was quite shocking to me.  I had the (obviously incorrect) assumption that it was necessary to understand children in order to write for them. 

The moment I walked into her office I knew things were not going to go well.  She immediately judged me.  My mom says it is because I am “pretty.”  Maybe I shouldn’t have washed my hair.  Or put deodorant on.  Then I bet she would have loved me.

It was immediately apparent to me that I was being faced by prejudice.  There are so many prejudices that we don’t think about on a daily basis.  Prejudice by the poor on the rich, the white by the black, the pretty by the ugly, the south by the north.  Of course there are the obvious stereotypes that we all know and are completely aware of but these are not the prejudices I faced.  I am not the minority and have never been treated with the utter disrespect with which this woman treated me.

She acted as if I was completely unintelligent and uneducated; of which I am the opposite.  I knew the moment I walked in there, right when she looked me up and down, I knew she wrote me off.  She rolled her eyes with every question I asked, she lifted her chunky hands to make her point perfectly clear. 

I got the message, all right.

To put this whole saga in laments terms, she was nasty and fat and ugly and mean- on the inside and the outside.  Now that’s a bad combination. 

I do feel bad, though, because the Dean of Admissions that I spoke with after the Bostonian Witch was very kind and actually asked me questions about myself.  Did I mention that?  The Witch never once questioned me about what I have done, or what I am interested in.  Witches never have been the most personable.  The Dean was a very nice lady who was willing to help me in every way possible.

What was interesting to me was that the Dean was telling me how overly qualified I was for the program.  I felt like I was interviewing for two completely different schools.  I would like to note, however, that immediately following the interview I told my mom about what had happened.  She was shocked by this.  “Maybe she was having a bad day,” I suggested.  I tried to give her the benefit of the doubt.  My mom and my dad told me that if I didn’t immediately have a positive reaction to this woman, I probably wasn’t going to.  Especially after reading the financial information on this school of a mere 3,000 students, I knew it wasn’t for me.  No ma’am.

Whilst in Boston, I noted the numerous people that made comments on my accent.  I have never thought of myself to have a shockingly southern accent, but the Bostonians made it quite clear that I sounded very near to an alien.  I’m glad I’m not moving there.  They aren’t very friendly.

My mom and I tried to start up a conversation with just about anyone we saw or met, even those we didn’t meet.  After dinner the night of the Cool Whip Incident of 2010, my mom and I decided we would like some sweet treats.  We went to a candy kiosk and ordered, as my mom so eloquently put it, “two hamburger sized pieces of chocolate.”  Once in the elevator, with pinot grigio swishing in our smiling tummies, we noticed a woman in the farthest corner in the elevator from us.  Taking in every social cue beautifully, my mom says, “Don’t you try and take our chocolate!”  All the while saying this, she moves her body spread eagle, arms spread, in front of me.  The response was not exactly what we expected.  She merely looked at us, fake smiled, and pursed her lips.

Turns out those northerners are quite bitchy.  We were just trying to be friendly.  They just weren’t fun.  Thanks, but no thanks, Boston.    

If you had to choose, would you save a shark or LL Cool J?

There are so many things I want to write about but I can’t.  Jacques says I can’t be too revealing.  Jacques is my recently hired agent, editor, and manager.  He is a man that I have discovered through this blog.  He read it and thought I was brilliant and offered me a deal.  Since I can’t write about what I really want to write about I’ll write about what I don’t feel like writing about.  (Figure that one out, a little redundant, eh?)  I’ve been doing academic writing all day for my graduate school applications and want to do some fun writing.

This past Friday night was fun but not too fun.  Crazy but not too crazy.  Definitely not one for the books.  However, I was given knowledge by some of my single ladies.  Since it has almost been a year and a half since I’ve done the single pants dance, I have forgotten all the ways of reeling in a man. 

My friends reminded me that sometimes, you just have to use a guy to buy you drinks.  Being that I have a conscience, I never really did this.  Some of my friends have really mastered this art, and the boys totally fall for it…every time.  If I were a boy I would see straight through these shenanigans, but being that I am a woman, I am much smarter than most men.

Speaking of men, it’s shark week.  This is how enthusiastic I am about it.  It seems as if every male species on the planet climaxes for this stupid week.  I watched a moment of it just to see what all the buzz was about.  I’m not positive, but I’m pretty sure they showed the same clip of a great white shark destroying a poor seal L 30 times. 

I didn’t realize this until today, but I’ve always thought all sharks were male.  Maybe this says something deeply psychological about me.  I have never thought of sharks (especially the mean ones i.e. great white attackers) as women until I realized today there had to be female sharks in order for the species to reproduce.  Biology never really was my thing, as I had to take it twice in college.  Think about it, what do you think when you hear of a sweet little boy being eaten up by a shark in Florida?  Do you think, must be a mommy shark, or it must be a mean alpha male shark?  The latter of the two, obviously.

The real thing that irritated me about these shark week antics is how the marine biologists are so concerned about the shark population and how we should embrace sharks rather than fear them.  ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!  Riddle me this, biologist: if sharks are so peaceful, then please take your time explaining to that surfer girl why a shark bit off her arms.  These people are just huge weirdos.  I may be a cat lady, but at least I’m not a shark lady.

Remember that movie Deep Blue Sea?  Where a bunch of idiots became “friends” with a shark and tested its smarts… and then it killed all of them.  All of them except LL Cool J.  He always survives.  This is exactly what is going to happen to all of these crazy cage divers.  It doesn’t seem like the cage is sturdy enough to keep a gigantor shark out of there.  I think a shark nearly eating your face off would even scare the hair off of Chewbacca.  Jake claims he wants to go cage diving but I think he just talks a big game.  I think he would pee his pants if he did such a thing.  But I guess it wouldn’t matter since he would be under water.

I’m too paranoid to watch Shark Week anyway.  I once watched the E! Investigates: Shark Attacks and didn’t swim in the ocean for 5 years.  I’m being serious.  I guess 5 years from now I will swim again.  That’s why the lake is king, there are no sharks, jellyfish, or mermaids.