The butterflies are becoming a problem. At this point they’ve reproduced several times, and my organs are littered with dead cocoon matter. I’m feeling quite clogged. And I can’t really contain them all in my stomach anymore, which is embarrassing—every time I yawn, at least three come flapping out. It’s even worse when I laugh, so I’ve taken to practicing more solitary, serious hobbies, like studying Latin and quilling. I even resorted to reading a plumber’s handbook from the library last week.
But none of it works, because every time I see Parker in class, I feel the caterpillars popping mercilessly into existence; by the time the bell rings, there’s a whole new generation of butterflies swirling through my insides, wreaking havoc on my social life.