Lament for a snail

Join me in a moment of silence

The sky opens up and baptizes me in new water. I pray like this I will be born anew. It washes the guilt from my face before pelting tiny bits of hail down onto me. Hail thumping across my skin. Hail getting into my eyes. I look to the sky and say “yeah I deserved that one”. I totally deserved it. I totally totally did.

I killed. Monster that I am, I was caressing and inspecting the grooves of my brain. How to reheat my soggy burger. Is my toe infected. Google later is my toe infected. Is my toe infected. I felt enamel on my heel. I heard what sounded like the cracking of an egg. Beneath me was the victim of my thoughtlessness. You, snail. You there with a newly cracked shell. Split open wide like a coconut. A pedestrian hit and killed and splayed over the pavement. Oh you were just a snail. You had no right to live under my heels. You should’ve known better than to not look both ways. I should feel less bad about the murder of a snail, but I don’t. Me and my brain start talking about it.

I go “omg did you see that” and my brain, narcissist that she is, says “calm down you baby it was just a snail”. Bitch. It was a life. A creature more innocent than a child. A baby has committed more sins in its 3rd year of life than a snail. It was minding its business. I should’ve known better than to not check for snails in the rain. I usually had in the past, though this does not absolve me. I talk to my brain again and I say, “is this the day we become vegan?” And she said (again total bitch) “you don’t have the discipline”.

Snail, innocent snail. Tell me where you go when you die. I hope you have all the leaves you can eat wherever snails go when they die. I hope there is actually a place that snails go when they die. I don’t believe that dogshit 7th day Adventist’s say about animals not having souls. I believe you have a soul. I think you do. You didn’t deserve to have it separated from your body by a ballerina flat. Maybe life as a snail was great.

Maybe it’s a reincarnation type deal. Maybe this is actually the beginning for you. Maybe your soul will find itself into the body of a nepo baby. Maybe if you do one of those past life regression things you’ll remember what happened and you’ll thank me for the fact that you were born as like Anne Hathaway’s granddaughter. Maybe this was meant to happen. Maybe I didn’t kill you for no reason. It was written in the tapestry of the universe. Maybe.

Or conversely, snail, maybe just maybe… this is your bad karma. Maybe in a past life you were a contemptible little shit. Maybe you were a rude DMV employee. An unhelpful customer service representative. A proud collector of NFTs. Maybe you cheated on your wife or yelled at nuns or burned down an abortion clinic. Yes that must be it. You were bad bad bad and so you got born as a snail. Forced to live as tapas for birds or landmines for feet. Cosmic penance. Yes you were commanded by the universe to live out this life legless and ungraceful until some spaced out young woman haphazardly ends your existence.

Ok I’m sorry. It does me no favors to make a snail a villain in the story of its death. Maybe I start a fund. I get the snails all titanium shells. Decked out with blinkers and break lights so people see them coming. I’d give their shells automatic breaking when they’re too near people’s feet. Maybe they could have a horn that goes off. I could start a charitable foundation and get the rich and famous to donate. I could get them to support my charity of tricked out shells for snails. We could make the shells like candy so people could see all snails from miles away. Vibrant little buttons gliding down the sidewalk. We could give them autobreaking and mariachi horns. We could partner with designers. I think Moschino would be interested. we could elevate snails to the haute couture. They’d be coveted pets. Prized accessories. See snail, your death will not be in vain. I promise you it won’t be. We are going to make haute couture for snails.

Is this what my life is going to be like? Reckless? Stomping on anything that gets in my way beneath my feet? Today it’s snails. Tomorrow it’s people. They say serial killers start with the animals. Maybe one day if I’m successful enough, and I find the right devil to sell my soul to, I’ll get out of a big black Cadillac and stomp all over the people of the world. Stomp on them because they happened to be alive somewhere beneath me. Maybe I’m destined to be a snail in my next life. Brain goes “shut up drama queen”.