|gif credit: arrioch|
There are a lot of things which seem to aggravate our universal sense of justice and order. Drivers who cruise ten miles down the road with their turn signal flashing, the shopper in the aisle whose cart is situated in the perfect place to make it impossible to get around without that awkward collision/ interaction, and the people who stand/ walk in the middle of the street while you’re driving through town, are just a few of the things which leave us agape...or furious. Among the myriad things which grind our collective gears will always be “line jumpers.” When someone takes a spot in the queue which obviously wasn’t earned, the hairs on the back of our common neck stand on end. Line jumping is just one of the many reasons I hate, with a deep and burning passion, bugs that fly.
If an ant wakes up one morning and decided, “Today is a great day to crawl around Morris’s face.” That ant must then slough through the laborious task of climbing up my foot, my leg or pants, my shirt, and my neck before making it to my face or head. As I tend to have a very low tolerance for things crawling up my body, most bugs don’t make it past the ankle. Victory for me. Flying bugs don’t have the decency to make the honest trek. They’re like a person who takes a helicopter to the summit, then brags that they climbed a mountain. One second, I’m standing comfortably. The next, I’m being strafed by flies, gnats, and other winged creatures with six legs. Just because you have a pair of wings, doesn’t mean you can pass all the other hard working bugs headed toward my face.
What makes the assaults of the airborne menace so vile, is the multifaceted nature of their attacks. The bugs play havoc at the corners of your periphery. Almost a figment of your imagination, but they’re just real enough to keep you on edge. Then there’s the buzzing. It’s almost like they can teleport from ear to ear. At a distance the buzz is quiet, like a hum. But as they dive bomb the side of your face, it’s like a helicopter is about to crash into your head. Then, of course, there’s the actual attack.
It’s not enough that the bugs go soviet psy-ops on you with sight and sound. But, they take their mental war games to the next level. They land on you. Skitter around on you. And then they bite, or sting; the vicious beasts. And, despite everything your dad says, sometimes, even if you stand very still, the stupid things take a shot at you. So, because of the misdeeds of their stinging brethren, you give every flying bug the stink eye. But it starts to get out of control and you flinch when shirt fabric touches you the wrong way. Then, you realize they really are after you. It’s a coordinated effort. And even the ones which don’t sting, bite, or otherwise induce pain directly, employ sabotage techniques, turning your own defenses against you. Craftily, the spies buzz near your eyes, causing a violent spasmodic swing which hooks your glasses, flinging them across the room. Then, while you’re distracted by the sudden loss of the gift of sight, the bug swoops in for an encore at your cheek. The resultant swat at the bug not only fails to kill it, but calls to mind, childhood tormentors. Over the throbbing of your cheek, you’d almost swear, you heard the saboteur saying, “Why are you hitting yourself?”
Flying bugs suck!