In a sea of swimming fish, lately, I’ve felt like a lobster.

A bottom feeder creeping, crawling, and clawing my way along. Devouring anything I could get my hands on. Just waiting to get picked, boiled, and broken. They say I’ve got about forty or fifty years; it should feel like I’ve won the lottery. Leaves me to question, Why it doesn’t?

I hope that last day will be admirable, though. In service of someone who’s never had the taste of lobster before. Isn’t that what we all wish for?

I can see her now. Hair blowing in the wind sitting beside the Atlantic. Each time the sea breeze hits her face, she swats the hair back to reveal a smile. A smile that lets the world know she’s dripping with anticipation, eagerly awaiting something she’s heard so much about. With each wave that crashes against the eroded New England sea wall, her excitement grows and grows, just hoping I live up to the hype. But like that, I feel the onus put back on me.

Or I suppose I could spend my last moments with the glutton. The one who’s eaten a hundred lobsters in his lifetime. Maybe the one who ordered lobster just to say he ordered lobster. Man, I’d hate to go out like that. Used, abused, or thrown in the trash. Is that what I deserve for my gluttonous behavior?

The possibilities of the end seem endless. It feels odd to care more about that lottery than the one I’ve already won. Maybe it isn’t so bad being a lobster after all.

I guess I’ll just keep creeping, crawling, and clawing my way along.

*This article is part of the ongoing Morning After series: short, reflective pieces on thoughts, feelings, and ideas about life. I write them the “morning after” a night out.