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I will drink every last drop of water on Earth

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Apr 25 2016 4:55 pm

I have a great thirst. An all-encompassing, unimaginable thirst. A thirst so deep and so strong it can never be quenched. But that does not mean I will not do everything in my power to slake my immense, insatiable craving.

No, I will drink it all. I will drink every last drop of water on earth.

Only when the last remaining droplet of cool, clear water on this planet is drawn inside my hull will I even begin to feel satisfied. So understand me: I do not intend to drink some of the water; I do not intend to drink most of the water; I intend to—and will—drink all of the water.

All of it.

The Nile River will no longer exist after I drink it down; Niagara Falls will cease to tumble and crash; I’ll swallow the Great Lakes, one by one; the Pacific Ocean will become an empty, dusty basin. Every sea, every river, every stream, every puddle will completely disappear. Each raindrop that falls from the sky will end up inside of me. Saltwater, freshwater, tap water—it makes no difference to me. I will simply drink and drink and drink and drink the water until there is no water left.

You think the irrigation systems put in place by your farmers will stop me? You do not know who you are dealing with. Rationing out a few liters of water for me daily—ha! This will not slow me down; in fact, it will only make me that much thirstier and that much more unstoppable. I will drink the water the farmer gives me, and then I will drink the rest.


My thirst cannot be contained within the neat little rows of my orchard. I will drain the world.

And do the rest of you fools truly believe you can hide the water from me? That your water is safe in the pipes inside your homes? Safe inside your swimming pools and hot tubs? Do you really think that just because your water is in little frozen cubes inside your refrigerators, that one day it won’t be mine?

How naive you are. I will find it, and I will drink it. Clouds, glaciers, sealed bottles—I will take the water from all of them. I will have all of your water and much, much more.

And when all the river and lake beds are cracked, barren desertscapes, I will suck the very water from your body. Yes, that is right—I will drink the water that makes up 60 percent of your disgusting vessel. You will be an unrecognizable, withered, leathery husk after I siphon all the moisture from you.

But first, I will drink all the water from your family and friends’ bodies as you watch, helpless. Your pain means nothing to me and my thirst.

Once I am finished, every inch of this planet will be bare rock and sand dunes. Its lush, verdant fields will become desiccated and brittle. The rainforests will be no more. The dry bones of all the world’s fauna will litter the endless arid wasteland. The world you know will soon be nothing more than a bleak brown stone circling the relentless, blistering sun.

And if water is ever found on Mars, I will drink that, too.

There is no stopping my thirst. There is no escape from it. This is the only future that awaits. For I am a cashew, and I must drink in every last ounce of water as I also drink in your parched screams for mercy.

But there will be no mercy.