If you add together all the meat, dairy, eggs, ext. that I haven’t eaten in the past however long, I think I have still killed more animals than saved.

I haven’t always been a murderer, I promise. And while this might go against my Miranda Rights, I will share my side of the story, for the record, with you all…

It started with guinea pigs.

“Please mom, everyone is getting one, I want one!” I pleaded my mom. I was younger than 10, and everyone on the street was getting guinea pigs from the old Korean lady down the street who seemed to have them in excess.

I had two: Mrs. Kensington and ___. The first I dropped by accident, which induced a seizure that never stopped. My dad took it to “a place,” which was just the dumpster behind the closest Blockbuster. I knew, but pretended not to. The latter was the real murder.

I stopped liking it, plain and simple. I mean, the things are rodents, really. Hideous creatures that eat their own poop and make strange noises. So naturally, I stopped feeding it. When my parents woke me up for school and told me the news that she had died, my response could have been better thought out.

“Good thing it’s trash day,” I said.

I’m not Dexter; I don’t get off on killing things. There is no Dark Shadow in my life. I just can’t keep animals alive.

I haven’t had another pet that I was personally responsible for until this past year, when I inherited the now famous compost bin. The worms were cool, a little quiet, but nice to have around. Their silence was probably their downfall, that and the fact that I didn’t have to feed them but twice a month.

Once every two weeks turned into “hey, have I fed them this month?” and eventually “oh, they can wait a few more days.”

When I told my mom they would be joining us on the car ride home for winter break, she was less than thrilled.

“Mom, I have worms,” I said.

“What?!” she said.

Even after the misinterpretation was cleared up, I had to promise that I would deal with them entirely on my own.

I didn’t feed them for a few weeks, but that was not my fault. My dad had “put them away” in a corner of the basement, and yada yada yada, when I found the bin, the inside wasn’t pretty.

“What do you mean, there is mold?” my mom asked.

“I mean, the worms aren’t eating. Either they’re anorexic, Gandhi or dead,” I said.

I added fresh newspaper, some water, and coffee grinds. It didn’t help.

I really don’t mean to be a murderer. Maybe I just don’t have the maternal, keep it alive instinct. But know what I think? I think that if I got a dog, that would make me be responsible. Because dogs are cool and loud, so I couldn’t forget about it. Hiding it in my dorm might be tricky, but I would cross that bridge when I came to it.