I frantically slap the side of my head, images of yesterday's pincher bug frolic on my eyes wide.
Slap. My hand strikes my ear. Slap. Slap.
Aw shit, I got that bug in my head. Or its revenge-driven brother.
I'm not the type to kill bugs. When I come across a parade of ants making their way from one side of a walkway to the other, I certainly make sure to step over (not on) them, forgoing the use of one of my innate powers, ability #11: The Colossal Foot Crush. It was the same way with yesterday's pincher. I found a scrap piece of paper, scooped up the pincher bug and brought it out. Except it wasn't enough. Just outside my bedroom door, it made a sly maneuver, wriggled over and dove onto the hallway carpet below, taking refuge in a jungle mess of brown mini shag. Ugh. It would return.
And return it did. My mind was racing, hurried, like a jacked-up thought-disco, dominated by a horror story once heard. You know the one where the woman heard shuffling in her head and didn’t do anything about it? What happened? Cockroach. Brain. Eaten.
Fuck.
Damn you, pincher bug! Damn you! I should’ve used power #11 when you hit the carpet! Argh! Then I think again. Maybe it’ll be for the better? Could it be? The bug bites away the bad bits in my brain. In tiny nibbles it lobotomizes the insecurity, the anxiety, the depression. Instead of doom, a smile says hello. MaybeeEEE?eeeNaaahhh.
After a q-tip assault, I relax.
After all this paranoia, you know that scurrying in my ear? I think it was my long hair getting fussy around my head and ears.
This must be what combing is for.
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