The Platy Brothel continues to raise questions that science apparently cannot answer.
Specifically: WHY WILL THIS FISH NOT HAVE HER DAMN BABIES?
White Panda—who is, naturally, not visible in this photo because the bitch knows when I am trying to photograph her—has now been occupying the Delivery Room since July 21st.
July. Twenty. First.
Meanwhile, fish in my office tank who are barely old enough to understand what taxes are have apparently been getting pregnant, giving birth, getting pregnant again, and starting multigenerational families.
But White Panda?
Nope.
She is approximately 847% pregnant. She looks ready to explode. Her water is clean. Her pH is good. Her temperature is holding right around 80°F. She has plants. She has hiding places. She has privacy.
She has better maternity accommodations than some humans.
And yet: no fry.
So I started researching, because at this point White Panda’s reproductive choices have somehow become one of my ongoing personal investigations.
Apparently, platies often retreat somewhere quiet when they’re getting close to giving birth, and there is plenty of anecdotal fish-keeper evidence that they may prefer delivering overnight in darkness. Stress and feeling exposed can also make pregnant livebearers less inclined to get on with the program.
And then I realized something.
The Delivery Room has been sitting in my kitchen.
Next to a salt lamp.
That we never turn off.
Across from a window where headlights, outside lights, reflections and whatever other nighttime bullshit might flash through at random.
So perhaps Ms. Panda has spent the last three weeks thinking:
“Absolutely fucking not. I cannot give birth under these conditions.”
Fine.
WE HAVE RELOCATED MATERNITY.
The Delivery Room is now in my office, which becomes legitimately pitch black at night. Unfortunately, the only available real estate was a chunk of my already overcrowded art table.
So White Panda is currently surrounded by paintbrushes, art supplies, tiny bottles of questionable substances and a skeletal octopus looming over her birthing suite—because apparently, according to Walmart, octopuses have fucking skeletons now. 🤷♀️They really looked at one of the most famously boneless creatures on Earth and said, give that bitch a rib cage. 😭
You know.
✨ Ambiance. Science. Anatomy. ✨
At least she’ll get some culture while she’s in labor.
I don’t know anymore.
What I do know is that I have juvenile fish casually producing offspring like they’re running an underwater teen-pregnancy epidemic, while this fully grown woman has had a private, temperature-controlled maternity ward for 23 days and is apparently waiting for the fucking moon to enter Aquarius.
So tonight, White Panda gets darkness.
Privacy.
Plants.
Perfect water.
An anatomically impossible octopus guardian.
And my final remaining shred of patience.
Please evacuate the fry, ma’am.
The Platy Brothel has other patients waiting.
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