Dearest Abby, 

I write to you with an unfortunate conundrum: the earthworm who lives my front garden seems to have no sense of personal boundaries, and I don’t know what to do. It’s not like we’re close friends; I’d say we’re professional acquaintances at best. Yet every time I leave the house, I am accosted by the annelid’s lascivious wriggling. He doesn’t even wear any clothes, not even a little worm beret, instead emerging naked and pink from the dirt like an undead alopecic vixen. 

Each morning he greets me the same way. “Hello, Mr. Big Boy,” he says. He inches towards me and looks me straight in the eye as I make a beeline for my car. This is especially disconcerting because he does not have eyes. “Do you want to know something? I’m a little slutty slut.” I tell him I already know this and would prefer not to discuss it again. “Bet you can’t tell which end is my anus!” he announces, and I avert my eyes. As I leave for work, he calls out one last time: “Whatever our souls are made of, yours and mine are the same!” I tell him this is unlikely to be true. He just smirks, as if I am teasing him—but Abby, I am serious. 

These encounters continue to upset my delicate temperament, and I don’t know how to proceed. I have considered installing a bird feeder to attract fowl to feed on him, but due to events in the past that are best left undescribed I distrust birds even more than worms. Last week I poured some insecticide into the garden, yet that too failed – the worm claimed that the attempted murder was a “crime of passion” and that the solution got him “all lubed up, like a baby covered in baby oil.” Abby, my sweet Abby, what’s a man to do? 

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