Bugs and things that crawl, scurry under cracks, and generally creep me out.

My problems with mice have taken up a lot of space on this blog.

Now I’m dealing with bugs. It’s summer in Chicago, and that means they’re everywhere.  As part of my weekly housecleaning today, I vacuumed out my window wells, sucking up dozens of living and dead Asian beetles (ladybug poseurs) in the process.   I had ants in my kitchen a few months ago.  I whacked a black beetle in my bedroom with an otherwise-unread issue of Wired just last week.  I hate bugs … I’m creeped out by bugs … I occasionally scream like a three year-old girl around bugs. I simply wish I were more rational about them. I can take them in a fight. I’m smarter than them. Furthermore, I have thumbs and hair, two things they can only dream of.  But they always manage to win the mental game.

I’m sure there was some sort of “trigger incident” in my early youth that predisposed me to be freaked out by them. Maybe my mom screamed when she saw a centipede.  Maybe a friend panicked when he put his hand on a colony of ants. Whatever it was, it hard-wired me to behave the way I do now.

I “tweeted” a few minutes ago about two recent creepy crawly incidents in my car. Locust are clearly next.  I hope to be more emotionally ready for them when it happens.

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