Remember how I'm an idiot, and have a paralyzing fear of butterflies? Butterflies. You know, peaceful, pretty, Mom-has-a-tattoo-of-one-on-her-foot butterflies. I hate 'em. They're gross. They have legs and beady eyes and I shudder at the thought of touching one of their paper-thin, powdery wings. (I just threw up in my mouth).
So, OK. There's that.
Now imagine the fear that an actual hideous insect could instill in me, if I am sent into a padded room at the thought of a fluttering symbol of serenity.
CICADAS. OhmyGod, I want to die. Why, when I woke up this morning, did I hear about nothing but this apparent infestation of cicadas coming to the Midwest? Some particular brood that emerges every too-many years and takes over the planet and eats our eyeballs and sends me running through the hills with nothing but a flashlight and my insanity. And actually, that's funny, because if this were to actually occur, I wouldn't stick so much as a breath outside. I wouldn't even look outside. Because if I had to see this, I would choke:
There's, like, a million. And that is a million too many. And if The World thinks I'm going to emerge from under the covers, which will be duct-taped to the bed frame so not so much as a feather could get in, and go outside, where I'll surely be swarmed by big, brown, squishy, winged, crusty, screaming dinosaur beasts, oh Hell no. It has another thing coming.
And so I will hide. Until absolutely necessary. Because I do not do cicadas, people.