I’m trying to do some writing because you know, I’m a writer, and I hear the familiar sound of the strigoi children from The Strain, the background music of every novel that Stephen King has written: the hermit crabs whining and clicking and clacking.
And lo, Fries has indeed risen from the dead, bigger, badder and creepier because HE IS EATING HIS OWN OLD BODY, naked out of his shell, and singing while he does it.
New title of memoir: My Zombie Hermit Crabs and Other Horror Stories of Parenting
Four hours later:
The child arrived home happy and tired, and I lifted the swimming pool over the tunnel where Fries, the jackass crab was hiding, shell-less, to the show him, and he RAN AWAY out of his hole, without a shell, and scurried across my hand, which I must go right now and scrub down to the bone. Meanwhile, the child turned Cheeseburger’s hut so the entrance is blocked because he is afraid Fries is going to eat HIM, too. Fries took a long bath while singing the song of the crab people at the top of his crab lungs, and he is now climbing around in a pink plastic terrarium decoration, naked and unafraid.
I am thinking it’s time to move and leave a gift with purchase in the house.