So, here’s the thing. Shark week makes me feel like a crazy person. Like, “I need meds and should be institutionalized” crazy.
People that know me, know I have a semi-healthy relationship with severe survival planning. Not like dooms day prepping or anything like that, more like I’m if I’m walking through the woods one day and see a Bear, I should probably know how to survive the encounter. And, if you know anything about Bear survival, you know that the way you respond depends upon the bear color. Brown bear; pretend your deadsville. Black bear, fight with all of you’ve got, but you’re probably a goner.
But you can’t treat a shark encounter like you would a bear encounter. I mean, with bears, you make noise and make your presence known and hope to dear god there are no cubs around. Sharks? They can’t hear you. They smell you. They know you have an itty-bitty paper cut on the inside of your left pinky and that makes you breakfast. And, when they decide you’re breakfast, it’s definitely game over for your left calve, and quite possibly you’re going to be completely sacrificed.
Thanks to the fine folks over at the Discovery Channel, we are reminded (for a WHOLE ENTIRE WEEK) exactly what will happen to you if you ever decide to snorkel again. You’re only chance at survival would be to swim as hard as you could with your newly crafted stumps and pray there is a boat nearby.
It’s terrifying and traumitizing and completely mesmorizing. Shark Week takes the phrase “I can’t not look” to an entirely new level. Oh look, the most cutest, sweetest, pudgiest seal I’ve ever seen…BAM! Oh, Don’t mind me, just sobbing hysterically into my teddy bear while inhaling a sleeve of chocolate chip cookies.
Yet, still I watch. I watch and I watch and I watch until I pass out, because I’m a sick and twisted undercover shark lover. I hope you are as disgusting as I am so that I don’t feel so alone and gross. Shark week? You’re the worst.
That is all.