On April 26, 2012, I ate between 1 and 4.5 million moth eggs. I’m not sure how many I actually kept down, thus the broad range in estimated consumption.
Immediately after consuming the moth eggs, I texted 2.0. The text read:
I just ate moth larvae.
I sent the text at 12:27 pm. I expected an immediate response.
I got: no response.
I messaged the only other person that I thought might be able to help – Katherine.
I just ate moth eggs, and possibly some baby moths. I didn’t know who else to contact about the situation. I have brushed my teeth about a million times, but I’m pretty sure they are going to reproduce in my stomach.
Katherine responded very quickly. She suggested that I find and consume a large bottle of high-proof alcohol, because – and I’m not sure if this is based on any sort of science – moths “… are allergic to that stuff and as soon as it hits ’em, they’re toast.” She also warned me against wearing wool for at least 48 hours. Then she asked: how did this happen, exactly?
My fingers shook as I typed. I told Katherine that I had been eating fancy crackers for lunch. Fancy crackers topped with smoked mussels. And I was happy. So, so happy. But then, as I neared the end of my tasty snack, I saw a… situation in the cracker box. People, I need you to understand just how horrifying it is to learn that the cracker crumbs you have been happily licking off your fingers are, in fact, moth eggs.
An hour after I ate nature, 2.0 STILL HADN’T BEEN IN TOUCH TO SEE IF I WAS IN ANY SORT OF DANGER OR IN NEED OF MEDICAL ATTENTION.
Still seeking some sort of reassurance, I posted this on my Facebook timeline:
I just ate moth eggs. As in: baby moths. I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO NEXT.
Within seconds, I had a response. Thirty responses, in fact. With useful advice like: a roofie might help you forget this has happened, and avoid lightbulbs. But still nothing from 2.0.
At 5 pm, when there was still no message from 2.0, I began to worry about him. What could possibly be preventing him from getting in touch? Was he trapped under a concrete panel at work, desperately trying to reach his cell phone? Wondering if moths were hatching in my esophagus? Was he fraught with concern, but unable to make contact with me? Etching a message on the bottom of that concrete panel with his fingernails?
No. He wasn’t trapped. He just didn’t think my “situation” was an emergency. At 6:30 pm, 2.0 finally called. He said, “Hey, do you still want me to pick up dinner, or are you too full from eating moths?”
That’ll probably be funny one day.