I’ve long said the forest is magical…

…but I wasn’t expecting the worm version of some Harry Potter shiz as soon as the weather warmed.

Somehow, I don’t recall seeing these things this time last year. But then again, that might’ve just been because I was too preoccupied with doing a complete and constant, frame by frame while in motion, optical securing of the perimeter to make sure there weren’t any spiders about to make my mug their new home. But, to be honest, these things are almost as bad. Because they hang from the same building material as their demonic neighbors like wriggling pinatas – so they’re perpetually trolling you into thinking you’ve just jogged through an arachnid mansion. Especially when you get that dreadfully familiar wispy face-feeling of what you’re sure is def not your own hair (for me, at least – not as much as I’ve bleached the fluff out of this straw mop). And suddenly you’re running blind and still clawing at your eyes and nose Krueger style to ensure nothing sentient’s on or in them when you trip over a root and go Supermanning into a the dirt below. #TrueStory.

(The weird finger print pant design makes it look like I was touched by God, literally.
Like his big giant thumb came out of the earth and made me trip.
Cheeky bastard.)

Thus, for the past week or so, I’ve been returning from the woods looking like I spent my time in there battling Peter Parker, and then when he ran out of wrist silk, he resorted to beating me in the face with a motorized flog. It’s less than pleasurable. Kinda the opposite of why I go out running.

So, what’s the solution?

Well, to complain here first (obviously).

And then, I guess (eyeroll) to try and do the whole compassionate-to-all-creatures thing I’m meant to be doing. Instead of, ya know, running through the forest like Forrest Gump would’ve had he starred in “Scream” instead of Firestarter chick. And committing levitating invertebrate murder as I go. But first, I need to know WTF they’re doing floating yoga for to begin with. And how. I mean, I know that caterpillars fly eventually… but while they’re still wingless? What’s going on here? Well, common sense would tell me that they’re obviously hanging from a silky string. But – why? Seems like a shitty place to try and feast – bobbing around in midair. I had to look this one up. And apparently, the answer’s that they don’t want to be there or end up on your face any more than you want them to. They’re at the literal end of their rope. See, when you’re an Oak Worm, you’re all cozy with a fridge full’a foliage groceries and living in a penthouse of canopy leaves. But the prob with living the (literal) high life is that you’re susceptible to the breeze. So, one day, during one of your infamous food parties, a wind gust busts up your party like the fuzz sending everyone jumping for their lives. As you plummet to your death, you parachute down with a thread – your only power. And – once you land on nothing – you realize that while you may not be dead, you’re almost in an even worse sitch. You’re a sitting duck. No, worse. At least ducks can escape with wings. You, on the contrary, are going to be stuck there until you either die for lack of food, or serve as someone else’s.

(Kinda like this. Except the exact opposite.)

So, what’s the kind thing to do, if we see one of these poor bastards?

I suppose it’s to finger cut their ripcord and carry them back to bark and leaves.

If nada else, maybe it’ll ease the guilt about Constantine-ing their octobug brethren back to hell with my boot.