How Much Is That Chewie In The Window

I used to have pet fish.
I had four of them.
These were their names:

My Fish Names

1. Crabpot
2. Meatball
3. Wonderfish
4. Cheezel

With names like that, you expect them to live forever right? Or at least a really long time.
But no.
They lasted less than a week.
Cheezel was the first to go.
And then in an act that scars me to this day, Meatball committed suicide.
This was how she committed suicide:

One day after Cheezel was found floating bellyup, I washed the tank. In the sink. I put the fish in a separate container. When I was done cleaning the tank with love and care, I prepared to pour the remaining fish in. Beside the sink.
As she was being poured in, Meatball was suddenly hit by inspiration (or some other blunt object that made her suicidal) and leapt out of the container.
Into the sinkhole.
The open sinkhole.
The end.

Several days after that, Crabpot and Wonderfish were hit by a mysterious disease (some say overfeeding, but I refuse to believe that) and also expired, ending my foray into the world of fish-ownership.

I still have the godforsaken tank on my desk.
It sits there, chiding me with its emptiness.

Hey. I could make it into a dustbin.
Yeah?

This is an ideal pet