Bugs

I have what the Orkin man would call a bit of a bug problem. It’s not an apocalyptic apartment take over, nor is it just one bug going for a jog across my floor. It’s somewhere in the creepy-filled center.

You see, my apartment isn’t invaded by a parade of crawlers. Instead, my place has become a bug graveyard. They are migrating to my floor to die. My apartment is Florida for all things insect.

Bugs are hiding in the corner knitting and playing canasta, then struggling to the center of my room to keel over. A family of dead grasshoppers washed up my back porch seeking freedom and citizenry. When I’m gone, there’s a Bingo mixer and a swarm of geriatric fruit flies reminisce about when they were young earlier that month.

I’m not greeted by a wagging puppy when I come home from work, but a Heaven’s Gate june bug reenactment. Just a row of 234 legs in the air. I’ve fostered some kind of deplorable, yet delicate ecosystem that only I can survive. The bad news is that I now have a dedicated kitchen utensil for flinging carcasses off the porch. The good news is I save a ton on bug spray by being a disgusting human being.

A spider broke its hip by my bed and lay there helplessly until its eight eyes glazed over. I put a silver dollar over its eyes (and entire body) and wept for lil’ Charlotte. I stood there like Wilbur in my literal pig sty and mourned for a moment before I side-armed the limp speck onto the sidewalk with my spatula.