I hate bugs. All bugs. But most of all I hate bugs that I don't recognize. Bugs kill. Especially mutated bugs that I know nothing about. True Story.
Last week I was outside my back office door sharing a ciggie with a c-oworker. We saw what we thought was a bee buzzing around. Until it landed. This was no bee.
I had a mild heart attack (read: I bolted) and we continued to share our ciggie and our conversation 10 to 15 feet away. Never once did it leave my mind that this mutated bug with evil tendencies and the capacity to kill was still nearby and could strike with no notice and any given moment.
It did. THE MOTHERFUCKER decided that I was his next target and attached itself to my shirt with the clear intention of killing me. Obviously.
I ran so fast I probably would have earned an Olympic Medal. In fact, I am not ready to give up on my Olympic dreams now that I know I can run that fast. Also, scream that loud.
When you've run as fast I had just run, and screamed as loud as I just had, running even further is not an option, just an FYI. Instead, hysterical crying is the only option left. Which I did. Pathetically.
A nice man, who spoke very little English, took some pity on me and saved my life. I have plans on updating my will to include Carlos (I am assuming that is his name, I am hoping I see him again to confirm this).
Once I came to (realized I was alive) I noticed a crowd. Apparently the office windows were open and a few (read: tons) of co-workers thought someone was getting murdered outside.
For the record, I was. That bug was a killer. And he wanted me.
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