Ew, Gross

My kitchen sink, and vicinity, has apparently become the place to hang out if you’re a four-inch slug. I have a mild, disinterested revulsion towards them; as long as they confine their activities to the late evenings what do I care?

I’ve never stared at a slug for three minutes before, nor had such emotional investment in them. I sight one, go away, come back later, note its non-progress, repeat repeat repeat; all the while wishing and hoping it will peacefully move on so that I can wash the damn dishes. I fear that if I were to get dish-soap on one of them it would, like, partially dissolve its body or something a la the effects of salt. Given the choice between intrinsically mobile whole slugs, or semiliquid slug segments, I’ll take the ones that stand a chance of not having to be manually removed.

They’re kind of fascinating actually. They can retract their head bits (antennae and whatnot) and they reach out this longer part of their bodies when on the move. The extended foot is a different color and, apparently, texture, than the main body bits. Maybe I should change the subject of my Fulbright—that would allow the kind of extensive sitting-in-my-apartment at which I truly excel.

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