What's love got to do with it? If you're Cupid, everything. If you're me, not a thing in the sea. I don't believe in love.

Poseidon is smoking some bad seaweed if he expects me to take the one job I'm obviously not qualified for. Rumor has it, Cupid is a chubby baby with a bad attitude. That's all I need. A pissed off porcine toddler with love arrows gunning for my tail because I took his job.

On top of that, the idiot I'm kind of seeing who shall remain nameless—mostly because I don't know his name… don't judge—left red and silver magic all over my skin and hair last time we… umm…went on a date. And guess what? It doesn't wash off.

Poseidon saw me sparkling away and now I'm freakin' Cupid. Getting to the bottom of this abyss means finding what's his name and thrashing his fine, smexy behind with my fin.

Why does this send shivers of delight all the way to the tip of my tail you might ask? I have no clue and no time to figure it out. Don't judge.

I'm about to give love a bad name.