Field Notes from the Worm War #5: Worm Olympics 2026 — Let the Games Begin

June 4, 2026

🎥 There’s a scene in The Beach where Leonardo DiCaprio has spent so much time alone in the jungle that reality starts blending with imagination. He begins seeing life as though he’s inside a video game.

I understand that scene a lot better now.

Because the worms have been training.

I know how that sounds.

But something is different.

They’re faster.

Smaller.

Harder to catch.

It’s almost as if word has spread through Wormville and somebody is holding strategy meetings underground.

I’ve convinced myself there is a ringleader.

Some slime-covered worm standing on a tiny milk crate giving motivational speeches.

“Listen up, worms… she knows our tricks. Stay low. Stay fast. No unnecessary surface activity and absolutely no thruples.”

Meanwhile, I’ve developed an entire sport.

The Worm Olympics.

And I’m a shoe-in for the gold.

The rules are simple.

Interrupt worms engaged in their nasty business?

30 points.

Direct hit?

100 points.

Miss one?

Minus 5.

Accidentally attack a wet twig that you swear moved?

Penalty.

Reach 1,000 points in a night?

Ice cream.

I wish I were joking.

The strange thing is that somewhere along the way I started taking this all personally.

Not because I hate worms.

Quite the opposite.

I don’t like killing anything.

I’m the person who relocates spiders.

I talk to plants.

When I first moved to Los Angeles, I discovered a pet store that sold feeder mice for snakes. I felt so bad for them that I bought them all.

What I didn’t know was that mice are incredibly enthusiastic about making more mice.

By the end of the year I was accidentally one poor decision away from appearing on Hoarders.

So trust me when I say:

I am a lover, not a killer.

Yet somehow I have discovered an inner primitive war woman willing to spend her evenings stalking invasive annelids through the darkness.

Life is complicated.

The good news is that Zone 1 continues to show signs of progress.

Big progress.

A year ago I routinely counted hundreds in a 10x10 area.

Sometimes close to a thousand.

This week?

Three.

Just three.

Either the strategy is working…

Or they’re all attending secret training camps elsewhere.

At one point my neighbor Carol walked by.

She gave her usual friendly wave. Carol likes to walk.

A lot.

And often at hours when reasonable people are asleep.

Unfortunately, she arrived at the exact moment I was engaged in what I believed was a high-stakes confrontation with an exceptionally suspicious worm.

Who happened to be a wet dandelion stem.

To be fair, after rain everything looks like a worm.

Twigs are worms.

Roots are worms.

Actual worms are worms.

The distinction becomes blurry after enough hours in the field.

What worries me most isn’t the numbers.

It’s the speed.

The younger worms seem quicker than I remember.

Maybe they’re juveniles.

Maybe conditions are perfect for them.

Or maybe I’ve finally crossed the line between citizen scientist and person who has spent far too much time alone thinking about worms.

The jury is still out.

What I do know is this:

The battle feels different now.

Not bigger.

Just stranger.

And if the worms really are training for the Olympics, I have a feeling the championship season has only just begun.