cicadas.
I am afraid of nothing in life. Insects of all sorts are my companions - I see trillion-legged things go skittering about under my desk, and I shrug and tuck my feet up and go about my business. I once held a boa constrictor about my shoulders. Not a stereotypical girl at all! Even mice and rats are adorable.

But cicadas. God-damned fecking cicadas.

The best image I can paint for you is this: last summer, a friend of mine decided to go to the beach. I volunteered to accompany him. Said friend and I have a long history; to make it short, I'll just say that I own his balls. I've bested in him in verbal matches. I've straight-up bitchslapped the boy when he deserved it. I am the queen supreme of our friendship, and he has not doubted for one second that I hold the power over him. Except for that day at the beach.

That day, we arrived. We made our way towards the beach. And within thirty seconds of arrival, I came to the horrible realization that there were cicadas EVERYWHERE.

In the span of thirty seconds, I went from calm, controlled me to OH GOD OH GOD MAKE IT STOP. I was a twitchy, nervous wreck, shuddering, making jerky Tourette's-like motions every time I heard something that remotely resembled their shriek. I cowered, drew my arms in, held my bag up to my chest to protect me, but then every half a minute I'd realize that OH WHAT IF ONE GETS ON MY BAG OH FECKING CHRIST IT'D BE RIGHT NEXT TO ME HJSDFKJSDF and then I'd proceed to flail my arms away from me and shake my bag until I was convinced it was safe. Then I'd draw it in closer. Rinse. Repeat.

In addition to my bodily motions, I was also alternating between inhumanly high shrieks of terror, uncontrollable sobbing, and gasping, shuddery breaths that bordered on hyperventilation.

My friend, to his credit, defended me until a ride arrived (at the time, both our cars were broken down, and I had to call my father in humiliation.) He had his towel in hand, and, like a ninja, he TOWEL-WHIPPED cicadas out of the air if they approached. This helped calm my panic a bit. Of course, a bucket also removes a bit of water from the Pacific, so...

However, I will never forget the moment when he tried to reassure me, "Oh hey now, ariza, they're not so bad - look - " and he fecking PICKED ONE UP AND HELD IT OUT TOWARDS ME.

I will never forgive him that moment.

The kicker to the whole story? Last year was the time of the 17-year cicadas. For those not in the know, these buggers only come out once every 17 years, and they do so in absolute droves. I had never seen a cicada in my life before last year.

I do not think I will be in the area in 2024.
(ariza, Sat 12 Apr 2008, 6:08, 1 reply)

did you know
that because they come out only every 17 years there is no memory of them passed down in the predatory lines of animals that should feed on them. this is why NOTHING eats them.

except probably house cats.

animals simply don't know what the fuck they are or what to do with them.

very clever.

trufax
(Nobody Likes Mortal Wombat, Sat 12 Apr 2008, 6:26, closed)