Yesterday I awoke to a small itchy bump on my leg, and since the only things I’m allergic to are each of my husband’s weird toes, which I always keep at a safe distance, I know it was you.
Sure, you think you have me figured out, Bug. You think you were justified in biting me while I lay defenseless in a deep slumber, because I’m like a jillion times bigger than you and you wanted, just this one time, to fight back against the human population who’s always smushing you or screaming when you come near. You felt unappreciated and unloved. This was your way of spitting in my food, wasn’t it? Well, prepare to feel ashamed of yourself.
The very day before you bit me, I saved two of your people from imminent death. I lifted a very heavy and inconveniently-located window for a flailing moth, saving her from an inevitable mauling from one of the several tiny jungle cats dwelling within my home. Yeah, that was me you heard about on your coffee break at work. Then, I used the precarious slide-a-piece-of-mail-under-a-cup routine to rescue a scary-looking fellow who obviously belonged to a family of stinging pestilent gangsters, even though I was worried he might have a knife. Seriously, I was slaying it in Candy Crush and I could have easily ignored both of those creatures. Did I? No. I saved them. And still, you attacked me.
I’m left to wonder… is there really no system among you bug-types, to allow you to communicate when a kind stranger saves one of you? Isn’t there some kind of list you keep within your community so you avoid biting the good guys? I thought you were supposed to be supremely organized and efficient. Oh wait, maybe that’s just ants and bees. Not whatever kind of sneaky-ass nighttime beast you are. You are a coward, and you are misinformed. And also your mother doesn’t love you.
I hope you someday have the internet and will read this, which I realize is extremely unlikely… because your vicious little heart is made of stone.