“Dear jellyfish, how do I escape?”
“Wait, let me google it. A sixteen-year-old girl says she want to escape. Aha. Do you mean you want to escape from your parents’ house?”
“What? No, jellyfish, I mean—“
“Okay, second result then. From school? From the system in general?”
“No, not exactly, jellyfish—”
“Damn it, google, stop giving me up! From all your dumb ass so-called friends, then?”
“Please shut up for a second, dear jellyfish! I am asking how I am supposed to escape from my own point of view! I am tired of seeing everything through my own eyes and from my own perspective!”
“I got it, google, who would have thought of that,” the jellyfish rubbed what was apparently its beard with one tentacle. “Okay, my baby girl, that’s not specific to a sixteen-year-old girl. It’s not even specific to humans. We, jellyfish, ask ourselves the same thing over and over again throughout our lifetime. Do you know how annoying it is to constantly see everything through a blue mist of swaying tentacles in front of your face? It’s similar to having eyelashes constantly stay in your face and blink with you every single fucking time. I’m guessing of course, jellyfish don’t have such useless shit such as eyelashes, but I imagine I would have taken them all out in about a month of my birth. Yes, yes, don’t look at me with such bursting disbelief, I tried to sting my own tentacles until they came off, but the elders punished me. You know what I had to do? Had to stand fucking immobile, like seaweed only swayed by water, and look at my tentacles. If they saw me not looking on my tentacles, all three elders would come and sting me on the head, which fucking hurts. A masochistic bunch, those elders. So I looked at my tentacles, wanted to sting them off, bite them off, scream them off (although jellyfish technically don’t scream). In a few hours, though, I got used to the shapes of my squishy, blue tentacles. Some were a little longer than the others, some were a little thicker, some were pointing somewhere funny. It turned out the fit like a puzzle. They closed around me and each fit with the one next to it, so they formed a balloon around me and hugged me warm and squishy. Baby girl, your tentacles are your own tentacles. Or in your case, your eyelashes are your eyelashes, which is about ten thousand times more disgusting than tentacles, but let’s drop the matter now. Every single species is trying to change themself because something in them makes their point of view crappy, their perspective unbearable. Cut the crap, I say. Spend a day or two looking at your eyelashes, girl, and they become yours.
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