Worm Stompin'

It's a rainy day. Anyone who knows me knows how much I love rainy days. What a morning.

I woke up crabby for absolutely no reason at all. I drove to Mankato because it's a class day. The drive was foggy and rainy and dreary. I rolled the window down to let the mist come in. Most of the time I carpool, but this morning I was alone. I could listen to whatever I wanted to and sing as loud as I wanted to, and I could let the mist come in. That was the best part.
The walk to class was wet. Wet and enjoyable. Because it was raining, the worms were out all over the sidewalks. I always try to avoid them. Poor little guys, scattered all over. It's a war. Every time it rains, the troops come pouring out of their holes. Onward! To battle! To death! Death by squishing. I saw the dead worms, littering the streets and sidewalks. The death toll was rising. I saw a girl ahead of me lift her foot and look beneath her shoe with some kind of disgusting grimace. Poor fella. Stomped to death by some girl in Uggs (Uggz? Ugs? Who the hell cares?). Is there a less honorable death than that? I doubt it.
Kate used to make fun of me when I lived with her. We'd go outside in the rain and I'd avoid the worms, but she'd step on them. I bet if she hadn't known how sensitive I am about worm killing, she'd never have thought to kill so many. Alas, many fatalities because Kate knew it would bug me to mash them. I assume full responsibility.

Back to Mankato. I've realized that I am a hypocrite. Of course, I've known this for some time. But today it became extremely apparent. Here I am, attempting to prevent needless death, and at the same time thinking about picking these worms up, bucketing them, and takin' the suckers fishing. Some of those guys were huge! I could have baited about six hundred hooks at least. So, again. This brings about this subject of an honorable death:

Is it dishonorable for a worm to be squished needlessly on the sidewalk, but more honorable to die on the hook? To be eaten by a fish? Bryan says yes, because the worm then serves a purpose, rather than having it's life smeared on the sidewalk. He makes a valid point, but I wonder. Death is death, right? Does it matter how it comes about? Hemingway puzzles over this question as well. Underneath his macho, masculine, unfeeling demeanor, hides a soul torn by experience in a pointless war. Extreme casualties. For no purpose. Is that honorable?
Basically, I've been trying to stall because I really don't have an answer.

Death is never good, but worms make excellent bait.

Doing Laundry

I'm becoming increasingly disgusted with my childishness.
Are you afraid of the dark?
Me neither... sort of.
So... ok fine. Here's the story:
I wanted to switch my laundry. The washer and dryer and soap and whatever else I needed were in the basement. That tends to be the place for such things. We've all seen Home Alone, right? Except there's no scary heater thing that awaits me in my basement. In fact, there isn't much of anything down there. Except the washer and dryer and soap and whatever else I needed. That, and darkness.
I was fine putting my darks in the dryer, added some dryer sheets to keep my jeans from getting too stiff. I had no difficulties putting my whites in the washer; though, I think I may have left the cold setting on. I've heard that whites ought to be washed in warm. Oh well.
Anyhow, I stretched to my tip-toes to reach the string that connects to the naked bulb hanging from the ceiling. I always falter with the light. My stature is not appropriate for such short strings from such high ceilings. Nevertheless, I was able to reach after much stretching and hopping. Then plunged into utter and pitch darkness. I literally felt as though I had dove under water. It was cold and it seemed the air had been pinched from my lungs. Plus, I suddenly felt like the nocturnals had awoken and were silently drifting near... like those biting sunnies at Lake Kohlmier. Waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dark took more self control than I could muster. Alas, I lack the discipline to stand up to the ebony unknown. Hence, I ran.
I ran across the room, slipped on the damp concrete floor. A slip! That's exactly what I need, to slow down, to let whatever is pursuing me, advancing with ease. I imagine they are darker than darkness itself, which is a terrifying thought because darkness is scary enough for me.
So I slipped. I didn't fall though. I caught myself on the wall and rushed onward. Up up up the stairs. I knew I was being ridiculous, but I couldn't help but feel I had narrowly escaped some unspeakable doom. I was hot; I could feel my face burn, probably from shame. What a child, running away from my imagination. As if I could actually conjure the beasts I created in my mind. My face burned. My chest heaved. I could hear my heartbeat in my head. The blood was rushing, exploding through my veins. Embarrassed and ashamed, I convinced myself to walk down the dark hallway to my room. I stepped on my toes, ever ready to take flight in case any threat might arise. Believe it or not, I made it to my room safe and sound.

Pretty pathetic, huh? I think so.
Then again, how unbelievable is it to imagine there is a monster hiding in the basement? It could nestle behind the dryer, where is would be cozy and warm.

I bet it eats socks. I always seem to come up short.