I’m going to Buddhist hell. That or I’m coming back as a bug.
I killed a moth tonight. Not just any moth. One of those ones that you hear when it flaps its wings. And it flaps, not flutters. Not only that, they can’t fly straight. They keep bumping into the fucking ceiling.
“Yeah, dude, if you hit the ceiling at that altitude THERE, chances are yer gonna fuckin’ do it nine inches to the RIGHT, too.”
Fucking stupid bugs!
This moth, I shit you not, was ginormous. 2.5″ wingspan. I kept trying to guide it out the fucking FIVE FOOT WIDE OPEN SLIDING GLASS DOOR THINGIE, but is it intelligent enough to know that cool breeze was indicative of outdoors, ergo freedom?
So, there I am, in all my brilliant Steffness, trying to talk the moth out of the place. Hell, it works for bees, for some strange reason (well, they’re colonizers. Smarties, really, them bees.) but clearly moths are not of the therapy-liking varieties of insects.
“Okay, now, six inches below you — no, dude, come on! Fly down. There, there you go. Six more inches. FUCKING MOTH. Why are you– FucketyFUCKfuck.”
Finally I thought I’d trying mindfucking it out of the apartment. The plan? Near-miss swatting with a rolled newspaper. What’s it do? Start batting itself against the ceiling, then ramming into walls before sitting down again.
All the while, I’m still doing the talk-it-out-the-door thing. “I honestly don’t want to kill you. But I will.”
Finally, after jumping onto my fourth piece of furniture, I swatted the moth against the wall–
Keep in mind I spent the previous five hours babysitting THIRTY-FIVE pre-teen and teen hip hop dancers backstage at the year-end show. I was MAJOR fucking stressed and tired upon arriving home. Then this MOTH shit happens? GAH.
–and it was a slimer! IT SLID EIGHT INCHES DOWN MY WALL AND LEFT A TRAIL.
I was fucking horrified! I did the icky-icky-pee-pee dance and squirmed my way around my apartment, feeling all dirty and never-gonna-be-Buddhist-now inside.
But I will further justify my exceedingly cruel ending of that moth’s life by saying this: It was that kind of big ugly fucking moth that leaves that dirty splat stain every where it hits on the wall. I have mottled walls now. It’s not a look I think I’ll keep. And so then the moth deserves to die for adding more labour to a 70-hour work week for me.
Yeah. I’m full of shit. But my apartment has no moths. And I’m about to drink wine and watch Letterman.