Why You Should Make Sure That When You Die, You'll Die in a Convenient Place Where You Won't Get in Anyone's Way

Good mid-afternoon, 61 FOLLOWERS! Just typing it makes me all light-headed, like I'm huffing spray paint. But it's high-quality spray paint, so I'm good.

Frankly, MY WEEK SUCKED. More than usual, dregs of society. You ask, "Why, Lucy, why?"

THIS IS WHY.

You're confused. What is that? A miniature black hole? A cigarette burn in a piece of speckled carpet? A Raisinet?

No, slightly close, and NO.

It's some bug thing.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh isn't it gross? I HATE IT.

A few nights ago as I was slithering to bed, I crossed the threshold of my bedroom and saw this little rapscallion, a martyr for peace that died as soon as it encroached upon my lair.

THAT'LL TEACH ALL THOSE "EARTHLY BEINGS" TO STAY THE HELL AWAY FROM ME.

So I look at it, take a few pictures and gloat about my supreme power over all that is good. Then I go to sleep.

I wake up the next morning, open my door, and see THIS.

Damnit.

I don't like animals. You probably assume it's because I hate anything that is capable of experiencing joy. You're 49% right, but the main reason as to why I hate animals is because THEY CAN DIE IN INCONVENIENT PLACES AND GET IN EVERYONE'S WAY.

So now I'm stuck with this minature martyr corpse sprawled out in front of my door. And I'd pick it up, but I can't because if I pick it up, my face will be relatively close to it. Also, if I were to pick it up with a Kleenex, I'd most likely feel its crunchy little exoskeleton against my fingers and I HATE THAT. So I did what anyone in my position would do.

I hid it under a Home Plate.

So this worked for the next two days and I guess you could say this was a little schticky but I'm a huge believer in ignoring your problems until they go away, so I did! Until this happened.

WHO WOULD DO THIS TO ME?

To be 100% honest with you, (on a side note, I'm hitting the percentages HARD today!) I probably would have left that Home Plate insect carcass buffer there for at least a few weeks, maybe even a month or two. Then I would lift it up in the hope that my insect martyr foe had decomposed into the carpet or perhaps had been dissolved and lifted into the cosmos. But alas, something or SOMEONE thwarted my usual coping techniques.

Now I'm forced to do something that I usually refuse to do: be creative.

I don't know if you're aware of what these are, but they're pretty much a staple in my life. They're these little tadpole-like bag things that you can throw at hard things and/or people. And when they make contact with a surface, they usually explode. It's a little pop but it gets the job done, especially during Girl Scout season when I don't want to buy another eight packages of Samoas. A few Pop-Its will buy me about twenty seconds so that I can limp out of Hy-Vee and back to the comforts of my maroon hurse.

So I figure that if they work on Girl Scouts, which are exponentially larger than my insect martyr, they'll sure as CHER'S talent work on my insect martyr's inconvenient corpse. I open the box...

And this is what happens to me.

FUCK YOU POP-ITS. YOU EXPLODE ALL OVER THE JEWELRY HUTCH IN MY TIME OF NEED.

Of course, I haven't cleaned this up yet. I think I may move my Home Plate to my jewelry hutch and see if it can clean up sawdust.

Anywho, I throw a couple of Pop-Its at my insect squatter and what happens?

They don't explode because my carpet is too plush and luxurious. So now I have to pick up the unexploded Pop-Its that are sprinkled about the insect vessel because I'm sure as hell not wasting five perfectly fine Pop-Its. My face was so close to the bug corpse that I could hardly stand it.

FUCK.

Now I'm running out of options. So I do the unthinkable.

I found this wreath in a dumpster behind the Blue Sky Mausoleum and, in a desperate attempt to avoid touching my arch-nemesis, I framed it. This is my logic:

The people that I live with have stopped humoring my phobia of picking up things off of the floor. I can't ask them to pick up the dead insect martyr for me because they'll give me a speech about how I need to grow up and start caring for my living quarters, even if we are living in a pot hole. Sufficed to say, I can't actually ask them to help me. Also I'M A SOCIOPATH so I'd prefer non-verbal communication.

This is where the wreath comes in. My pot hole-mates will look down at the floor in front of my bedroom and see a wreath. They'll think to themselves, "Why does Lucy have a wreath? Does she believe in Christ now?" They'll inspect the wreath and discover the insect martyr's bedraggled corpse. They'll then muse that since I'm pious, it would be a good idea to pick up this bug carcass for me just in case I turn out to be super holy so that I won't condemn them.

Damn I'm freaking smart.

So now it's a waiting game.

I wait.

And wait.

And wait.

And NOTHING.

No one cares. No one can be BOTHERED to care about how hard it is for me to walk in and out of my bedroom for fear that I might slip and fall and my face might touch the now week-old bug body.

But then I woke up this morning.

And IT'S GONE.

I don't know why or how. Maybe the wreath ate it. Maybe the Home Plate decided to step up to the plate (har har) and get rid of it in the night. Maybe one of my pot hole-mates did the right thing and picked it up for me.

Or maybe, just maybe, God saw that sign of Christmas cheer in front of my door and saw the beauty in my doctrine of hate. Maybe God did me a solid and dissolved my bug martyr into the speckled carpet below.

Maybe this insect vessel has made me a believer.

Lucy

P.S. False alarm. I moved the wreath and the insect martyr was underneath the bow. FUCK.