
I am a murderer. I murder frogs. I don't mean to. I don't want to. But, at times, it's unavoidable. I don't know if it's like this across the continent, but in my town frogs love hopping across roads. If it's a rainy day, I'll see anywhere from 10-100 kamikaze frogs on my 12 minute drive home from church. Needless to say, I can't dodge them all. I feel bad.
I deserve the guilty feelings. To be honest, I have a history of torturing frogs. I remember many years ago, during Houghton Family Camp, playing a game involving frogs. The challenge was to catch a frog, run up to the top floor of the dorm, throw the frog out the window, and then run down the stairs fast enough to catch it again for Round 2. I feel really bad.
I'm sorry about my past. I don't remember if I ever dissected a frog in school, but if I did I'm sorry about that too. Truth be told, I like frogs. I used to have a thick picture book filled with tons of animals. My favorite pages were the frog pages. I especially appreciated one frog that looked just like a big juicy burger. Hmmm. I feel really really bad.