Hi, I'm makes-out-with-slugs

Okay, I suppose the term make-out is a blatant exaggeration. There was no tongue involved. Although, come to think of it, I've always thought my tongue resembled a wet pink slug. Perhaps my slimy mollusk companion would have preferred that oral muscle to my chapped ten-year-old lips.

Anyways, my brief and sticky affair commenced on a hot day in May at the insistence of my camp counselors. They claimed it was sacred camp tradition, and I dared not defy the khaki-covered demi-gods. What child would disobey such magnificent heralders of knowledge? Heralders of knowledge. HA. I bet they were nothing but a rag-tag batch of pimply teenagers trying to flesh out their college applications. My adult cynacism mocks my childhood reverence.

I was not the only girl who shared an intimate moment with the slick yellow slug. A line of the most audacious campers formed, eager to prove their fearless gusto.

I can't help but wonder now, what if that slug felt seriously molested? What if (s)he lived in a constant fear of intimacy until (s)he died? What if the kissing incident caused such keeen mental distress, (s)he commit suicide by rolling in someone's salty lunch? After all, as hermaphrodites who are phallically shaped, I'm sure slugs already struggle with gender identity issues. Add unconcensual physical contact with multiple individuals... who knows what neurosis that poor slug suffered. Safe to say, if God proves to be a mollusk, I will burn in Hell forever.

Then again, perhaps my insecurity is distorting my ideas. Maybe that meager mollusk's confidence was in shambles before our one-moment-stand, and the kiss was a catalyst for spectacular emotional metamorphosis. Maybe its slug parents never cuddled it as a mucus-like baby. Maybe it's single foot wasn't as long and muscular as the other slug's. Perhaps our tender embrace empowered that slug forever, inspiring it to start a slug charity that aid other differently-abled creatures!

The whole situation demonstrates to me the hopeless poignancy of interaction. Whether it is a kiss with a slug or a fight with friend, I hate how the ripples of our actions are impossible to know. We are all but grains of sand, able to see and affect only the few grains scattered around us, forced to remain ignorant of the entire beach. I don't believe in an afterlife, but I desperately wish I did so I could one day know my modest role in this baffling universe. And, of course, so I could make sure my ex slug-friend is okay.