A repulsive, wicked insect has taken up residence on my front porch.
I don’t have any special dislike for insects, but this one has a quarter-inch long stinger, and looks like one of those wasps you see at Yuma Proving Ground that lay their eggs inside of tarantulas to provide their young with a convenient food source upon hatching. The range safety officers warn you about those insects, just like they warn you about rattlesnakes and heat. It would be naive to regard the insect on my porch as anything other than a dire enemy, particularly since it becomes agitated and tries to dart inside whenever I open the front door.
Reader, I think it likes my perfume.
If it should get into the house, I am certain it will murder Lyndon. He consumes lizards and geckos by the dozen, but this thing is no gecko. I kind of want to make it joust with a hummingbird, but that would mean putting the feeders back up. Plus, if the hummingbird lost, I would feel like a monster.
This morning I had to water the plants, and then unlock the front gate to take the trash to the dumpster. The insect had taken up a station within easy darting distance of the padlock and chain.
I set down the trash and eyed my enemy while unbuckling my belt, then thought, Hey, JT. What are you doing?
Um. Not sure.
I re-buckled my belt, fished out my keys, opened the lock, and slithered through the gate, trash in hand.
In 10 days, my doctor will ask me if I’m experiencing any side effects from testosterone. Now I’m not sure how to answer. I imagine saying airily, Fine. Just fine. I almost tried to fuck a bug, but I caught myself in time.
That could happen to anyone, right?