"Why Do You Hate Bugs So Much?"

I have about a billion answers to the inquiry of why I soo loathe the insect world.

They are gross. They are scary. They invade my personal home spaces. They are sneaky. They bite and sting. Some of them spread diseases. They are dirty. They're everywhere. Because cockroaches exist. Because bees exist. Because I hate them. Pick one!

As I sat at brunch this morning sipping Easter mimosas with two friends of mine, our conversation somehow digressed into vivid re-tellings of our respective harrowing experiences with bugs. Lord knows I have had many such encounters, and I've devoted entire posts to some of them.

The three of us recounted various tales of run-ins with insects and our insanely irrational reactions to them. Two of us tend to devolve into full on panic attacks when staring in the face of roach danger, while the other experiences total body paralysis under the same duress. Whatever your highly irrational response may be, it can be a refreshing conversation when you discover a comrade in your neurotic bug-phobe affliction.

The brunch conversation ended with me uttering this phrase: "Watch, now that we've talked about this I'm going to go home and find a roach in my apartment tonight."

Bad move, self, bad move.

No, I did not come home to a roach inside my apartment. Yet. The night is still young, so that may still be on the docket with my luck. But, no. Given what happened to me on the way home, I think I may prefer the roach.

There I am, driving home. I've got the windows down, because, you know, it's a very nice day out and I'd like to feel the breeze. I was tooling down Lake Drive, I had a chilly Diet Dr. Pepper in the cupholder, and that sweet ass Luke Bryan song was playing on the radio.

And then.......and then.....

A rogue bee flew into my open driver side window and TOTALLY EFFED UP MY WORLD.

I was going 45 miles per hour. All I could hear was the sound of trapped wings buzzing furiously. The bee was IN MY HAIR. It was in my hair. And It could not escape. I went to the Chili Peppers concert last night and this was my morning-after hair. IT WAS A HOT MESS AND THE BEE COULD NOT ESCAPE IT.

I was going 45 miles per hour. This was actually happening. I took one hand off the wheel, very unsuccessfully tried to control my breathing, and also unsuccessfully tried to feel around the rat's nest on my head for the entangled invertebrate. I kept thinking to myself how appropriate this end would be for me. Female, age 24, expires of panic attack induced by trapped bee in messy hairdo. Write it in the obituary. Anyone who knew me would not be surprised.

Finally, I found the spot in my hair where the bee was trapped. I flailed furiously. Okay. The bee was no longer in that spot in my hair. (Please keep in mind I am still trying to maintain control of my vehicle throughout this whole debacle).

Tears were streaming hard. Although the bee was no longer in my hair, I had momentarily lost it--and I always adamantly argue that a lost bug is far worse than seeing a bug in your vicinity in the first place, AND I was still trying to keep my car straight on the road through my panic and tears. The bee was now in a mystery location somewhere very close to, or as I soon found out, ON my person.

The bee had migrated to my shoulder. My shoulder. In other words--bare skin. And do you know what he did?

That godforsaken bastard stung me.

Just so we're clear, these are all the ways the bee violated me today:

1. The bee entered my personal should-be-insect-free-and-safe vehicle, which is a freak miracle in and of itself as the car was traveling at 45 mph.

2. The bee burrowed into the abyss of my morning after hair and got himself all sorts of twisted up in there, causing a panic attack and a near-collision.

3. The bee stung me. I don't know if you've been stung by a bee anytime in recent history, but it really freaking hurts. If that makes me a pansy, then you just pick up that watering can and watch me grow, because bee stings REALLY HURT.

4. The bee took away the sense of comfort and security I previously had while driving my vehicle down a nice road at 45 mph. No longer will I be able to do that without the ever-lurking fear that this may happen again. This is the same fear I harbor basically every time I go into a small bathroom. The culprit in that situation? A roach.


That's what I hate bugs. That's why I'm so scared of them. Because shit like this happens. Well--that-- coupled with a deeply ingrained, inherent fear of them that I've had since birth, I'm pretty sure.

I think the chick over at the "what should we call me" tumblr got it wrong, though. She proposed that this is what happens when people feel a bug on them:

When I Feel A Bug On Me

While this graphic is certainly true in some cases, I think the following post from her site is much more accurate for how I react when there is a bug anywhere near me:

This is What I Actually Do When There is a Bug Somewhere Near Me

I become an insane gazelle, leaping over and/or bulldozing anything or anyone in my path to escape the eminent danger posed by the bug.



I hate bugs.
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