So DH and I were laying in bed last night, trying to fall asleep, and idly discussing what kind of feet caterpillars have. This is the kind of thing we talk about, which explains a
At one point I was talking about taking a good look at a fat green caterpillar, and I can remember getting a really good look at it. Then I realized that the memory included the caterpillar crawling up my arm while I examined him closely.
I also remembered a lot of time playing with striped caterpillars crawling over my arms and hands – after a bit of research, it turns out they were Monarch caterpillars, which makes sense because I clearly recall the resulting butterflies, too.
I know there were fuzzy and spiky and horned caterpillars, too, and I prefer not to think about it because I let them crawl on me, I bet. *shudder*
I had a lot more to say when I started this post, mostly about how repulsed I am about how I used to wade around in ponds catching tadpoles, letting the mud squish up between my toes even though god only knows what was living and breeding in that mud, and it’s a wonder that I never got malaria or cholera or creeping green death from swimming in that fetid glop.
I can’t do it now, though, because I just spent the last hour looking up and identifying various disgusting bugs that I let crawl on me and now I have the willies and I’ll be damned if I’m looking up pond scum when I’m already in a delicate overwrought condition.
Childhood is GROSS.