I used to spend my Friday nights hitting up the trendiest new cocktail bars in New York City, then staying out and partying until dawn. Nowadays, I’ve found myself spending Friday nights bobbing up and down in the East River, using my highly sensitive whiskers to hunt fish, because I put on so much coconut oil that now I am a lithe and sexual harbor seal, a change that I’m still struggling to come to terms with.
Before this month I’d somehow never dabbled in coconut oil before. But it smelled so good and made my skin irresistibly silky smooth and I…I couldn’t stop. I was hooked. Before I knew it, I had a two-liter vat of coconut oil on every flat surface in my apartment. I was so engrossed in my coconut oil obsession that I didn’t even stop to question why I had suddenly grown whiskers, or why my legs were slowly fusing into one flipper, and why I was suddenly such an incredibly sensual and slippery tube.
The more I slapped on, the easier it became for me to wriggle in and out of bodies of water without using my arms. Before I knew it, my arms were half their original length and also webbed, and all I craved was fresh fish and seal dick. It wasn’t until I was voluntarily wriggling into the Gowanus Canal that I realized: I had applied so much coconut oil that I had fully, irrevocably, turned into a lithe, sexual harbor seal. Someone please help me; I really don’t want this!
My biggest problem used to be finding a boyfriend. Now, my biggest problem is the uptick in underwater noise caused by excessive boat traffic, which make communication very difficult for all kinds of marine life. I do have a seal boyfriend, named Arfus, who is very cut and we have a borderline unhealthy amount of sex. So there’s that.
Yes, I’m virile and have an insatiable sexual appetite. But was my heightened libido worth fully transforming into a sea-dwelling hound dog? My instincts say no. But my instincts also want me to bone Arfus as much as possible to produce more seal pups and further the species, so I don’t know what to think anymore.
The worst part is: I still can’t kick the stuff. I rifle through piles of trash that devious sanitation workers throw on the shores of the Bronx in hopes of a half-full tub of coconut oil. On the occasion that I find one, I can’t really apply it to my body, due to my webbed pectoral flippers and rotund frame. These features make me an excellent, streamlined swimmer, yes, but I end up just eating it. Life is crazy!
On my latest trek out to the Connecticut Sound to raid fishermen’s hauls of herring, I got to thinking: What if I just gave up on the coconut oil? Could I ever return to my old life? I’m just not sure. And that’s why I’m writing this, asking for your help. The first step in any recovery process is admitting you have a problem; the next, asking for help. So here I am, lithe, sexual flippers and all, speaking my truth, warning against the vices of coconut oil, and asking for help!
