Those who know me well know I’m a big old hippie. I make new stuff out of old stuff. I love to recycle, compost and grow things. And because I grew up barefooted on a farm, I’ve never minded when ants and other creatures wandered into the human realm. I figure they have as much right to be here as you and I do.
That’s why I’m still a bit upset about Friday. On Friday, I killed a bug.
It wasn’t just any bug, but a nearly two-inch long cicada killer wasp. (Such a beautiful insect!) It was loudly buzzing in the kitchen window at work, scaring people, being basically ferocious. (Wrong place, wrong time, poor guy.) I knew it had a mighty sting (c’mon, a bug’s gotta defend itself), so I squashed it between the window and the blinds (the stuff of high-grossing insect torture porn, I suspect), and I had to do it again and again (final scene: the horror!) because it just kept hanging on (no doubt thinking of his wife and sixty thousand babies at home…sigh). Guilt!!
And now, the second level: I have a super soft spot for cicadas. And these wasps eat cicadas (actually, sting them and drop them, one by one, into their babies’ pods, so that once digested by said pupae only their sad husks remain, like some crazy cicada skeleton horror movie all its own). So, I should be happy, right?
Well, it goes on and on. So, here I am, Sunday morning, still thinking of the cicada killer wasp. Sorry, little guy.