I’m a Were-Frog and Someone Still Fell in Love With Me (??? HOW) 🐸❤🔪
Full moon hits. I explode into frog.
Not majestic. Not anime transformation. Just splat — skin goes inside out, bones liquefy, I scream in ribbits, land in a ditch full of rainwater and shame. Every. Single. Month.
Do I hop? Yes. Against my will. Do I eat bugs? Also yes. Against my will?? No. Bugs are delicious now. I don’t know who I am anymore.
Anyway.
Last month I’m in full swamp goblin mode, hiding behind a Taco Bell because the moon hit like a truck and I couldn’t make it home. Just sitting in a puddle, sobbing, covered in flies, feeling sorry for myself.
Then SHE shows up.
Walks past, double takes, and goes: “Dude are you okay?”
I try to speak. I croak like I’m dying (I kind of am). She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t scream. Just sits next to me and pulls a Capri Sun out of her purse like this is NORMAL.
She says, “You look like someone who needs to hear they’re still worthy of love, even if you’re… uh… moist.”
Reader, I croaked again. This time emotionally.
Fast forward: we’re dating now. She calls me her “little swamp husband.” She buys me heat lamps. I write her poems in the mud. We are so cursed and so in love.
Moral of the story: Even if you turn into a slimy demon frog once a month and scream into drainage pipes — you can still find someone who looks at your horrible amphibian body and says: yeah, I’d smooch that.
Never give up. Love is real. Frogs are forever.
Not majestic. Not anime transformation. Just splat — skin goes inside out, bones liquefy, I scream in ribbits, land in a ditch full of rainwater and shame. Every. Single. Month.
Do I hop? Yes. Against my will. Do I eat bugs? Also yes. Against my will?? No. Bugs are delicious now. I don’t know who I am anymore.
Anyway.
Last month I’m in full swamp goblin mode, hiding behind a Taco Bell because the moon hit like a truck and I couldn’t make it home. Just sitting in a puddle, sobbing, covered in flies, feeling sorry for myself.
Then SHE shows up.
Walks past, double takes, and goes: “Dude are you okay?”
I try to speak. I croak like I’m dying (I kind of am). She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t scream. Just sits next to me and pulls a Capri Sun out of her purse like this is NORMAL.
She says, “You look like someone who needs to hear they’re still worthy of love, even if you’re… uh… moist.”
Reader, I croaked again. This time emotionally.
Fast forward: we’re dating now. She calls me her “little swamp husband.” She buys me heat lamps. I write her poems in the mud. We are so cursed and so in love.
Moral of the story: Even if you turn into a slimy demon frog once a month and scream into drainage pipes — you can still find someone who looks at your horrible amphibian body and says: yeah, I’d smooch that.
Never give up. Love is real. Frogs are forever.
26-30, M
