You don’t know me. You never will. And yet, as your tiny gross body wriggled underneath my foot, I came to realize that we all are just passengers on the same train. The train of life. You may be just a fuzzy worm, and I may be just a communications major with a fourth grader’s ability to use a computer young journalist, yet the day we met remains etched in my mind like an etched message in an etch-a-sketch. Your bravery was palpable, and although the pain I felt following your sting could only really be described in seven “Parks and Recs” GIFS (www.theodyssey.com/being-stung-by-a-caterpillar-as-told-by-parks-and-recs) I am thankful for it.
That’s right. I’m Thankful for My Caterpillar Sting, and That’s Okay. The day we crossed paths was a regular Thursday. I had decided to have a “Me day” like everyday, and walked to the park to look at “Animal Farm” on a bench. I slipped off my Birks, buried my toes in the grass like a hobo, and was suddenly shocked by a shock. What followed that surprising sting was several stages of pain (Namely fifteen of them, as best described by Lorelai Gilmore) and I immediately searched the ground for the culprit. I found you. There you were, my precious poisonous pal (this literary tactic is called alliteration). I watched you struggle, then crawl away, your creepy body slowly slinking away. At that moment, I felt something different. (From before, not in general): Pride. You fought that day, caterpillar. And that’s more than a lot of us can say for ourselves. But it is all that I can say now that I have completed this two hundred word limit.