Friday, October 28, 2005
I hate bugs. I never liked bugs but I don't remember actually obsessively hating them until a science teacher in the seventh grade required a bug collection from each student. We had a list of about twenty bugs (including cockroaches!) that we had to find, trap, suffocate in a jar and pin to a piece of Styrofoam along with their scientific name. It was an unimaginably gory assignment from which I have never fully recovered. If there is such a thing as karma, that teacher has to deal with nasty infestations of the insect variety on a regular basis.
I don't mind lizards so much as long and they stay outside. If they come in my house though, that's a chameleon of a different color. Shortly after I moved here, I realized I wasn't alone. The house came with its very own newt. The newt and I eventually had a rather nasty run-in involving nets and brooms and flashlights and bug spray (there's no such thing as newt spray...I looked). At one point, I whacked that sucker and he went one way and his tail went the other. I flushed the still wiggling tail down the toilet and eventually subdued the newt and whacked the shit out of him with the broom. I scooped his limp, and probably lifeless, body onto the dustpan and threw him over my patio fence. I'm pretty sure he was dead; but, I prefer to think I just stunned him. Denial works well for me.
When I see an interloping reptile or insect in my house, I freak out and have been known to use an entire can of bug spray on one bug. I actually drown them more than poison them. If the critter gets away from me, say behind a couch or under a dresser, I will obsess over that piece of furniture for days. I realize that the roach, spider, lizard, junebug, cricket, or whatever, is hell and gone from whatever he ran under or behind. However, in my mind, he's still there taunting me and waiting to make his move.
I hate bugs...and newts.