It’s really unlike me to surprise. Most say I’m routine, consistent, normal. And that’s the way I’ve liked it.

So, when I woke up last Tuesday, right at 5:44, exactly one minute before my alarm would be predictably late to wake me up, I was surprised.

The beauty of them, surprises that is, is that everyone knows it coming except for the one surprised.

Surprise party? Meticulously planned. Organized. Coordinated. Executed.

Jump-scare? Directed. Acted. Edited. Screened.

Everyone is in on it, except for you.

You see, when things are planned, you realize there’s no surprise. Somebody’s pulling the strings. Or, so-called surprises can be predicted with scientific accuracy. Even a cosmic Armageddon would be screened for hours, weeks before our doom, long enough for it to be forgotten when our time is already up.

Therefore, it was a shock to me to wake up a fish.

It was hard to notice at first, really. It wasn’t like I could feel my fins instead of hands. Really, what does it even mean to feel your hand, or your knees, or your toes?

I noticed when I no longer had to breathe. I couldn’t even hold my breath.

Also, I was no longer in my room. I was, I didn’t know where I was until I saw a curious grocer eying me and my other identical cell mates through the glass.

We swam, emotionless, in place until a green net attached to a flimsy stick plunged into the water.

Since that day, I’ve woken up every morning as a fish. I don’t think it’s the same fish, I’m the same fish. When I’m caught by that little green net, I wake up at home as I’m returning from work. I think. My bills seem to be paid. I’m still getting my meager paychecks. I always have groceries at home. My plants are watered. And my mail is organized alphabetically.

I haven’t questioned this talent; I’m moreso grateful for it.

I’ve never felt more fulfilled. Providing for others and myself so that we’re both satisfied.

With this talent, I can tune out the routine that once consumed me and swim.