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.