I have no special fears to speak of.
When I was younger I used to have a general dislike of spiders and wasps and things that go eurgh. I remember my joy on the day I discovered the word “arthropod” because it seemed to quite nicely encapsulate all the ugly small things. But with time, I embraced my inner arthropod, and realised that we’re not really so different, them and me. Yeah, it’s annoying when wasps make a nest in your attic, or when a redback spider hides in your dunny and jumps out and sinks its fangs into your family jewels, but when you think about it, aren’t we all just looking for a delicious pair of testicles to sink our teeth into? Figuratively speaking, of course.
Maybe this lack of fear in my life is a problem. I’ve found myself quite a cosy life here – a job that suits me, mortgage well on its way to being paid off. Sometimes I feel like I’m judged for choosing a stable life, rather than parachuting across Madascar while simultaneously attempting to have sex with four unhappy sharks. Maybe they’re right that I’m missing out on certain thrilling life experiences, but I’d much rather be a success by my own standards than a failure by theirs. Their message seems to be that if I’m not balls deep in an aggravated great white by the age of 33, then I’m just marking time until I die in some very boring way in some very boring place. Well, to those haters, I say only this – if I’m going to have sex with those furious elasmobranchii, then it’s going to be on MY terms, and on MY timescales. I’ve got plenty of sharkfucking years left in me, thank you very much.