Slugboy and Your Wanton Mother's Libidinous Journey into the Carnal, Licentious World of Molluskan Coitus

There is a strange man sleeping on my sofa. There is a fat, slug-like man sleeping on my sofa. I'm not sure when he got here or exactly how he managed to drag his slug-like body the 10 laborious feet from the door to my fucking sofa. Now, I've only sat on that sofa once; there tend to be people--ewwwww--congregating around it much of the time. Still though, I like to think of it as my sofa.

The air in my room has been growing decidedly stale over the past few days. Whether that fact can be chalked up to the ever-increasing pile of dirty laundry or my general lack of hygiene is anyone's guess, but I decided to remedy one of these. I decided to bathe my clothes and not my body.

I separated my clothes into two piles: whites and non-whites. I'm sure Nelson Mandela would disapprove, but apartheid in a laundry setting is a good thing. After all, it keeps the whites from getting corrupted by the inferior darker clothing. I loaded the whites into my laundry bag, a bag made from my dad's fat pants (not fat pants in the Subway Jared sense; these pants are now too small), left the seclusion of my room and ventured out into the wilds of my apartment where, at any moment, I may be accosted by someone who wants to have a "conversation."

I turned on the kitchen light. I didn't need to; I usually only walk around my apartment under the cover of darkness, so I know the place pretty damn well. But I turned the light on anyway. I was grabbing the key to the laundry room when I looked over at the couch. There, sprawled upon my couch, without a layer of plastic between his cottage cheese legs and the upholstery, was the slug-person. I'm not usually frightened by sleeping people, but this was an exception. I jumped a bit. He looked at me, accusingly, I thought--must have interrupted a wet dream. I used my special wordless greeting smile (I use that one a lot at work). He rubbed at his bleary cow-eyes and I vacated the apartment, fat-pants bag of superior linens in tow.

My laundry happened. When I got back to the apartment, I discovered that this fine chap had turned the light off. Whoa. . . not okay. First of all: my apartment. If I turn the light on, it stays on until I turn it off or the Rapture, whichever comes first. Second of all: mucus trail. I have no problem with Slugboy McWetdream walking around outside. This unseasonable June rain we've been getting should wash away the slimy trail he leaves behind. But is it too much to ask for this human/gastropod hybrid to limit his movement around my apartment? I realize now that the couch is beyond help; I just won't sit on it ever again. But to turn the kitchen light off requires substantial carpet-walking upon. Irrationally, I had been hoping that Slugboy's only carpet-sliding would be from door to couch. My mistake. I may have to get a Rug Doctor.

I am currently sitting on my bed in my room. I can hear Slugboy snoring. How very attractive. I believe earlier I mentioned that it is my scientific opinion that the individual sleeping on my sofa is currently experiencing a wet dream. Since he is a slug and I am a Wikipedia addict, I have decided to include a short section about slug sex dreams:

Slugs are hermaphrodites, having both female and male reproductive organs.

Once a slug has located a mate, they encircle each other and sperm is exchanged through their protruded genitalia. A few days later around 30 eggs are laid into a hole in the ground, or beneath the cover of objects such as fallen log.

A commonly seen practice among many slugs is apophallation. The penis of these species is curled like a cork-screw and often becomes entangled in their mate's genitalia in the process of exchanging sperm. When all else fails, apophallation allows the slugs to separate themselves by one or both of the slugs chewing off the other's penis. Once its penis has been removed, a slug is still able to mate subsequently, but using only the female parts of its reproductive system.

Fascinating, no? The thought of an sluggily erotic, apophallic dream occurring anywhere near the vicinity of my apartment, not to mention inside it, is enough to make me want to toss some table salt on this fucker and watch him bubble and die. But I won't. And who says I'm not a good host?