OPINION: I can’t stop fucking worms.

By Wormy William

Now, I know what you’re thinking. Fucking worms: weird, right? That’s what I thought at first too, but I’m here to set the record straight. I’ve lived in the proverbial compost bin long enough, and now I’m ready to come clean about getting dirty.

I can’t stop fucking worms.

It started innocent enough. One day in March, I was going down the sidewalk in the rain when my heelies lost traction and I fell over. When I opened my eyes, I was face to face (or maybe face to butt) with the biggest, juiciest, slimiest worm you could ever imagine. The sidewalk was littered with slippery little worm bodies, but this guy was the thickest of them all. His glossy coat glimmered in the rain, and as I watched the little bendy-straw-tube-thing on his neck pulsate and throb, I started to sweat. For what felt like a lifetime, we watched each other, and something passed between us. Then he shit some dirt and wormed away.

For weeks, I tried to get on with my life, but I couldn’t stop thinking about his wormy little nubs. Every time it rained, every piece of dirt, every unfolded balloon animal I saw–it all reminded me of him. Time went by, and I began to see my obsession for what it really was: desire. It got so bad that I couldn’t even go outside without wanting to get down there in the dirt and wiggle around. But I was a man and he was a worm, and that was that.

Then early one morning I went out to turn the compost, and there he was. Cocooned in an old banana peel, staring back at me with that irresistible wet little bump thing that I think is like his eyes or something. As I watched him chomp down on some coffee grounds I wished he was chomping down on me instead, and suddenly I realized I couldn’t take it any longer.

There was no one else around that fateful morning, and I can still remember the ripe smell of the compost, the cool breeze on my bare chest, and above all, the general worminess. The grass was soft and damp with dew as I lay there, satisfied, long after he had burrowed back into the dirt. For the first time in my life, I knew what it meant to feel the earth move. After all, who’s better at moving earth than an earthworm?

For two weeks, I returned to the compost bin every morning, but I never saw him again. I was devastated. Then it rained, and suddenly I saw him everywhere: on the sidewalk, in the grass, on the sidewalk again, on a different part of the sidewalk. You never forget your first, but it was time to move on. They say there are many fish in the sea, but I’d trade all the oceans in the world for one wet, wormy driveway.

Now here I am, two years and thousands of worms later, and I’m proud to call myself a worm-fucker. While, sadly, the state of the world is such that I can’t reveal my name for fear of jeopardizing my future and the future of the many worms I love, I’m filled with hope that the Golden Antlers have lent me their support and a platform to share my story. [line about other worm-fuckers who should feel okay about themselves?] For me, every week is Worm Week, and it’s inspiring to see the GA taking the first ground-breaking, earth-eating-and-shitting step to stand up for the little slimy guy. Thanks to the Golden Antlers, I can finally say it: I can’t stop fucking worms, and that’s beautiful.