I once had a date with a redheaded boy named Keith (who turned out to be quite boring and rather strange-in that I’m too touchy feely and talk too soft sort of way-but that’s not the point of this story). On our first date, which I thought would consist of sitting on his front porch, sipping wine he bought from a winery, and smoking hand-rolled cigarettes, he (I guess) decided this was not “romantic” enough and suggested we take a late-evening stroll through the park. I really didn’t see the need, and was sort of annoyed by the suggestion, but went along anyway.
A bit later, after returning to his house to use the restroom, I looked down at my sandal-covered feet and noticed about 30 or so slugs of all different shapes and sizes crawling in and out of my toes, sliding along my ankles and calves. Horrified, I tore off my shoes, grabbed my bag, and blurted something like
Slugs! Feet! GOD! Gotta go! Slugs! LOOK at your TOES! GROSS! Bad slug idea. DUH!
We hosed off my feet out front and I headed home. Much later, I realized they were on my skirt and legs as well. It took days to get them off me mentally.
Mihow 
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