Bugs. Or, why I hate the creepy crawlies.

Let's just put it out there because anyone who's met me probably knows it already: I hate bugs. And spiders. And some birds. Anything that flies at my face. But mostly bugs. It's to the point I almost stopped reading "The Metamorphosis." Serious. I can't say exactly what about bugs is so freaky. The rational part of my brain knows full well there's no way a bug could hurt me. Even if they wanted to (and there have been times when they've wanted to I'm sure of it). I could easily crush a bug (or a spider) with my shoe with zero chance of harm befalling me. Yet, when coworkers screamed there was cockroach (a two-incher at that) chilling out by the door to my office this morning I got weak kneed. OK, that's an exaggeration. But it did freak me out. Yet, I still felt compelled to go see it. To get as close as possible. But not too close, in case it tried to scurry my way. I think it's because the fuckers are so damn tough. I've seen a cockroach get stepped on, and, guts oozing all over the floor, still try to craw it's ass away. I've personally kicked a cockroach across a room, full on punted the thing, just to see it flip itself over and charge head on at me.