What an unglamorous existence

It's turtles all the way down

A Note from Eric

I spend the majority of my life cowered under my shell, and the moment I stick my neck out to take a peek at the surrounding countryside, BAM!, a volcano erupts and buries me in my nakedness — only to be rediscovered in 2000 years by hungover archeology students. 

What will they learn from me?  That turtles existed in Pompeii?  Is that all I have to offer to the future history of the world? 

What an unglamorous existence is the life of a turtle. Hiding from things that fly and other things that crawl. Spending life indoors, afraid to go out and explore the world. 

Maybe if I knew I was living in proximity to a volcano I could have — I don't know — started crawling away. 

I was the fastest turtle in my turtle group of friends. 

Maybe I could have made it to Continental Europe, or even found my way to what would become known as the New World. 

Alas, I was hibernating from daylight and predators and potential predators like I did for most of the day — on most days. 

I couldn't even hear the rumblings of the volcano before it blew us all to smithereens.  I guess I should be happy I had a soundproof shell. 

Maybe they can extract some DNA from my radioactively preserved remains to clone another version of my poltroon self. 

Or at least mount me in a museum to be gawked at by tourists and Italian schoolchildren — anyone who may have yet to discover the scar of cowardice.