THE BUG RESCUER

                In general, I am fearless around bugs; spiders, bees, etc. don’t even make me flinch. Usually, I try to “save” them if I can by gently carrying them outdoors. Recently, I saved a hurt bumble bee from a bathroom floor in my dormitory (bumble bees are just too adorable).

As a kid, my mom always told me to never kill bugs, no matter how small (this is coming from a woman who has owned 3 pythons since I’ve been alive). “It’s way more afraid of you than you are of it… unless it’s hurting you or very dangerous, leave it alone or put it outside,” she would always tell me, and that moral has stayed with me into adulthood.

I am particularly fascinated by spiders. My fiancé lives out in BFE, and his porch is riddled with giant spiders—not the friendly-looking kind, but the kind that could fuck shit up. On summer nights they have an all-you-can-eat buffet because all of the lesser bugs attack the porch lights then get caught in webs. It is really a sight to see. I appreciate spiders because they eat things that “bug” me (aha, pun). This includes June beetles (which I consider to be the stupidest bug on the face of the planet) and mosquitoes (which I am allergic to).

To me, it’s quite amusing, since I am surrounded by arachnophobia-riddled people. My dad has almost crashed his car multiple times because of spiders suddenly appearing, usually very tiny ones. I actually really want a tarantula, but my roommate threatened to drown it in the shower, and my mother claims they are too “dangerous.” Siiigh.

ANYWAY, enough about spiders…

Despite my generally badassness around bugs, I must make a confession: there is one bug that makes me rather uncomfortable. It’s the only one that makes me cringe and gives me goose bumps…

Centipedes.

(I actually got goose bumps looking up pictures of centipedes on Google images)

I’m not sure what it is about centipedes that make me uncomfortable. I think one of the main reasons is just how damn fast they are. I mean, the best glimpse you can get of a centipede is from the corner of your eye as it scurries across your floor.

I also read a story as a child about centipedes. In the story, a little boy notices more and more centipedes appearing every night in his room. Then, one night, a giant centipede comes and wraps up the little boy, like a rope. Then the other centipedes come to feed…

DFKGJDFGKDFG!

One day, I was confronted with a house centipede. They look like this:

 (scary mofos!)

 

I screamed, frozen on the spot as it ran under my oven. Despite my fear of the little things, I attempted to hold onto my morals. This left me in a state of inner struggle… do I kill it? Take it outside? Ignore it? Well, for damn sure, I was NOT keeping it in the house. It would find its way to me and smother me in my sleep, or wrap me up so its children could feed.     

I cautiously picked-up the dustpan. The centipede was fast and ran underneath the counter, right by my foot. I jumped 10 feet in the air and screamed enough for everyone in the house to hear (except I was alone, unfortunately). I gripped the dustpan tighter, flushed. My heartbeat increased, my pupils dilated, my hair stood on end… fear won over morals, and warrior mode kicked in.

The centipede had to be eliminated.

For the first time in my life, I threw a dust pan with the intent of death. An intense wave of guilt washed over me with each blow as I picked up the dust pan and continually dropped it on the centipede. “I’m sorry!” I cried out loud to the centipede, “But you came into my house! YOU CAME INTO MY HOUSE! I’M SORRY! YOU MADE ME DO THIS!” 

This continued for about 20 seconds. Then, as I went to pick up the dustpan, ready to drop it again for about the fifth time, I caught a glimpse of the centipede and paused. Enough of its legs were broken that it had slowed down, but it was definitely still alive (dust pans don’t do well as weapons—who knew?) I felt an overwhelming sense of pity and sighed. I couldn’t do it.

Using my dustpan weapon, I picked up the centipede (refusing to look at it) then threw it out my door, closing it behind me quickly. This all happened in about 5 seconds.

I didn’t have the nerve (or balls) to kill it. Instead, I disabled it then threw it into the wild. I still don’t know if that was the better option.

Sometimes, I wonder what it’s like to be that disabled centipede. I wonder if the other centipedes make fun of it. I wonder if it has a centipede family (I HOPE NOT). I wonder if it died or was eaten by another centipede.

I haven’t seen any centipedes since. I think the handicapable centipede told them to stay the hell away from the house of the crazy lady with the dustpan.

And for that, I thank thee, centipede.