We live in a woodsy part of Texas which means that the out-of-doors is warm, humid, grassy, with thick shaded forests where flora can decay and be consumed by insects and whatnot. This creates near legendary swarms of mosiquitoes in the summer, and provides a home to a great many arthropods that break down dead organic matter and help the cycle of life continue.
As such, it’s not entirely unusual for one of these creatures to permeate the illusion of the hermetically-sealed home and lo, there is a bug.
When encountering such a bug a human can ask, “Shall I dispatch this small, yet alive bit of matter, animated by forces unknown or shall I do something else with it like dress it like Carmen Miranda and play showtunes or, perhaps, return it to the great out-of doors.
Oftentimes when coming across a “roly-poly” I will take an extra moment, scoop it up in its defensive ball form and return it to the nearby garden. I wish it well on its way. I hear the great chimes of Lhasa toll for me and the name avalokitesvhara whispers on the wind. Lauren says “That’s very Buddhist of you”.
But last night as I wandered into bathroom I noticed an insufficiently cute Symphylian of some sort scurrying across the floor. In a moment I grabbed a copy of Vanity Fair and with the full fury of 18-th century Johnathan Edwards' Puritan God, struck out at that interloper, tossing a brick through the delicate gossamer web that suspends the lives of all sinners and arthropods over a firey Hell.
Although I feel bad that as I turned him to a shade the last thing he saw was the forced, painfully-cool smirk of Shia LaBoeuf. The perfume girl ad on the back was much more pleasant.