I don't do bugs. I don't. They aren't my thing.
So why, WHY God, do you, day after day, put me in the presence of said multi-legged, transparent winged creatures of the dark which I can't even speak of without the very hairs on my arms (legs, neck, head, Cats) standing up and my body lurching forward in revolt and horror?
There is something terrifyingly, genetically wrong with the locust. For starters, it is HUGE. Huge. Like a fly, only 14 times bigger, and uh, GROTESQUE. All big, and shiny, and wing-y, and noisy, and leggy, and crunchy, and infested with the horrors of the Devil, himself. Who created the locust? And for what purpose other than to strike fear into the hearts of babies? And, hi, also me. My heart, it has feared.
And also, MORE IMPORTANTLY, WHY was there a locust resting ever-so-snug upon the right windshield wiper of my vehicle Tuesday morning when all I hoped to do was complete my hour-and-a-half drive in peace? In sweet, sweet calm, without fears of locust invasion, a fiery crash, and the utter despair of my family when they'd inevitably learn that I died because a locust made me veer into the median wall of the interstate, on my mind?
Because, HELL NO, I was NOT about to knock the unwelcome guest off of my right windshield wiper before getting into my car. I would not touch the creature with a 42-foot pole while in a spacesuit. No, I won't do it. He would, like, fly. And buzz. And then probably take off in my general direction, in which I would scream bloody murder, dash into the street and likely get struck by oncoming traffic during my public display of irrational fear. So, no. No touching of the locust.
Instead, I get into the car. Turn on the wipers. And, nothing. It would NOT MOVE. Didn't budge. I think the little bastard child of a mother locust enjoyed it. His giant wings a-flutter, his jointed legs clinging for dear, evil life. Locust, I hate you.
So I continued to drive. And continued to frantically attempt to knock the Mother Bugger off my wiper with high-speed wiper action. Uh, nothing. Except he began to crawl farther along the wiper. Movement! Success! Except, shoot, movement meant he could fly off at any minute, and get sucked into my open window/sunroof and unleash his wrath upon me while I'm trapped helpless in a moving vehicle with no option but to careen into the median. You see the dilemma.
So I rolled up the windows. Immediately. And frantically. I also began to sweat because, dammit, it's warm out. But, hi little locust, still on my wiper blade.
I couldn't take my eyes off of bug from Hell. And, by the way, bug? How does one even consider categorizing this man-eater as a bug? Bug implies small, wing-ish. A couple legs, or so. Easily squashed, yet still mildly frightening.
This was no bug. This was a beast. With claws. Jaws. I'm pretty sure he had an armored vehicle somewhere under that shell of a body. And wings. And legs. Eyes. Oh, God. I hate it. I still have the heebie-jeebies.
Then suddenly, in my frantic attempt to dislodge the Winged Death Hound from my wiper blade, he fell. Out of sight. Into the vents below the wiper blades, just near the top of my car's hood. As previously discussed, when it comes to bugs, I live by the philosophy "out of sight, out of mind," so I did feel better about the dislodgement.
However (oh, you knew there was a however), where, please, did he go? When I parked safely at home an hour later, and hesitantly peeked into the unknown that is "where the locust went," he was not there. And I did not see him fly away. Ever. Is he under the hood of my car? Is he working his way through my car's ventilation system, soon to come crawling through one of the vents in my dashboard, at which time I will absolutely, without a doubt, drop dead of a heart attack?