saint-louise's Diaryland Diary
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Edgar Allan Poe wrote about this once...I think...
Don't you hate it when a piece of lint on your bedroom carpet starts imitating a grotesque bug of mutant proportions? Dinner-plate-sized. No, really.
(Okay, yeah. I guess it's just as gross that there would be a dinner-plate-sized ball of lint on my floor. Fuck off.)
Buglint can look particularly ominous when cast in the glow of moonlight through a window. Trust me on this one: I know the menace of moonlit, dinner-plate-sized buglint.
Yeah, and I especially hate it when I roll over in bed and see the masquerading lint, and get all kinds of adrenaline rushing through me, as my body and brain scream at each other:
Brain: FIGHT. FIGHT, MOTHERFUCKER. INTRUDER ALERT.
Body: No. No. FLIGHT. Run like hell. Better yet, hide under the covers and hope that it has a sudden, massive heart attack and dies before it can creep over here and gross you out by being crawly in your general vicinity.
Brain: FIGHT. YOU MUST KILL.
Body: Hey, I'm in charge of the mobility here, Gunnery Sergeant Hartman. And I say we're going duck-and-cover. Piss off.
Brain (muttering): Pansy…
I really hate it when all I can do after that is pull my covers over my head like a cowl, peering out at the buglint, waiting for it to move to see if it really could, conceivably, be a bug, waiting until I drifted off to sleep so it could leap – ninja-style – onto my head, and then...you know…pretty much be a BUG ON MY HEAD.
I hate when the buglint doesn't move. And I get tired just staring and staring. And the adrenaline fades. And I drift off to sleep and have gut-wrenching nightmares. About, you know, being pregnant, or being back in high school, or even dangling off of a cliff over the yawning maw of a phosphorescent, keening hell. With bugs on my head.
I hate when I wake the next morning with a start, babbling about 3rd period PE, and realize that it was all a horrible figment of my imagination, gone wild in the hazy horrors of that craptastic hour between 3 and 4 am.
And I really, really hate it when I look over to where the buglint was, and see my cat lounging there, happy as a lark, with half of a dinner-plate-sized bug locked between her teeth.
Legs dangling out. Oh, the horror.
Don't you hate that?
4:54 p.m. - 2003-04-16
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