I went outside for a smoke break and found a thick fuzzy woolly worm crawling up the wall.
“You know, I once dated a guy who had a mustache just like that,” I remarked to my fellow smokers.
Being rather fond of cute fuzzy harmless insects, I plucked it off the wall and watched as he climbed up my finger. He began frantically chomping away at my skin with his cute little mandibles, and I chuckled. “You can try to bite me all you want, you’re not going to get anywhere!” I said.
Declaritive statements have always been my enemy.
He struck home right at the base of my cuticle. “Ow, you little fucker!” I cried, flinging him to the ground.
“What happened?” asked a smoking bystander.
“I think he got somewhere,” answered another.
“Ew, he spit on me, too!” I said.
I’ve learned something from the experience. One, it’s going to be a hard winter - that caterpillar was fuzzy. Two, things that are cute and fuzzy turn un-cute real damn quick when they attack. Three, Mothra started life as a woolly worm in mid-Missouri, because this evil creature is clearly one of her descendants, and when he someday emerges from his chrysalis he’ll be 60 feet wide and will probably find me and flap his wings and blow me and my house all the way to Peoria in revenge for placing him back on the bottom of the wall after he’d already climbed halfway up it.
I don’t like caterpillars anymore.