I accidentally stepped on a beetle. A giant fucking beetle. On my porch. In my socks. It blew the fuck up and covered my sock in gross fucking beetle juice. I might have to throw away my sock now. And I'm going to have to sterilize my foot. Because I can't deal with gross beetle germs living on my heel. And I don't know if beetles carry rabies or that mouse disease (I can't remember what that one's called because after the millionth potential plague the news talked about, the part of my brain that can process symptoms and rationality huddled in the corner and started singing "Come Together" - The Beatles' version, which is now completely ironic). And I don't know if the germs can be transferred through sock and skin without some sort of bite. I hope not, because if the contamination works anything like Spiderman, I'll be hanging out with Michael Keaton sooner than I'd have thought, and without the fucking Batmobile. Shit.
|This is the beetle that I stepped on. It's on the cement that's painted beige. That's not skin.|