I didn’t choose the slug life. Slug life chose me.

It was about 4 years ago. I was getting ready for a night out with my friends. It was raining that day, but it was the perfect Summer night. The frogs were were jumping around my yard and it really didn’t bother me. I liked the noise they make and all that jumping. Funny little fellas, I tell you.

Anyway, I received a call from my friend that I should be on my way. I took my purse, stepped out and squished something with my foot. It was horrible. “It was a frog. I stepped on a frog,” I thought at that moment and felt sick. I broke its bones, I killed an innocent living being. And it was utterly disgusting.

From that point onwards, my night out was a real disaster, because I kept remembering that accident. Although I was sad because a life has ended, I was much more grossed out. It was a very horrible sound. Everybody else laughed because of how clumsy I am. They’d know otherwise if it happened to them.

Since the night didn’t get better, I took off. When I was in front of my house, I thought it was time to face the consequences. I took my phone to light the victim and was actually surprised. It wasn’t a frog. It was a f***ing slug!

I hate slugs. They are gross. And then my brother came home and said: “Oh, I saw immediately that you stepped on a slug, but I didn’t tell you when I saw you in town because I wanted you to suffer.”

Talk about brotherly love.


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