We are living through this weird thing in Chicago right now, where zillions of an alternate breed of cicadas push their way out of the groud, climb up our trees, shed their creepy first bodies, and emerge with even creepier big black bodies and red bulging eyeballs.
Then they proceed to look for other cicadas to get down with for like, a month or so.
And then they all drop dead from all that sex. (This part hasn't happened yet.)
Supposedly this cycle only happens every 17 years. I'm considering moving elsewhere, at least temporarily, for the next go-round.
Yeah, and here's why: Cicadas think I'm hott. Yes, they do. And the feeling is NOT reciprocated.
Lots of kids--mine included--can somehow overlook the repulsive black-body-red-eye combo and have decided the little suckers are cute. Not me. Especially because every time I venture outside, they are making some kind of inappropriate pass at me.
First, I went for a long bike ride with my friend. None bothered her, but instead flew into me with all their might. I kept flicking them off, but when I got home, a huge one had attached itself to my boob and proved very difficult to remove. Strike one.
A couple of days later, I went for a run, and one decided to live on my very sweaty neck. I think he was trying to give me a hickey. And come on now--I'm not that easy.
The final straw was during another run. I was so proud of myself, jogging through swarms of them and keeping my cool. It was a real laissez faire, you-do-your-thing-I'll-do-mine kind of strategy and it was totally working. Except it really wasn't. Because when I got home, I went straight to the laundry room and started taking off my shirt. When it was halfway over my head, I heard the distinct translucent-wings-rubbing-together chirp, which translates in English to, "Hey baby, wanna get buggy with me?"
Was my potential suitor in my shirt? Hair? EAR?????
I screamed, threw my shirt in the utility sink, and poked madly at my ear. I had convinced myself a HUGE cicada was in there, which I'm sure is physically impossible, but all those urban legends about cockroaches in people's ears had me wigged.
Next, I started clawing at my bushy, unruly ponytail, which my husband had assured me days earlier was the perfect breeding ground for the bugs. That guy wasn't in there, either.
Finally, I got the guts to approach the shirt, now relegated to the utility sink. I gingerly poked at it. Nothing. I shook it. CHIRP! Yup. He was just lounging around in there, drinking my sweat, waiting for me to come to my senses and have a romantic moment with him.
I shook the shirt again and called my dog to come and get it. CHIRP! Murphy pawed at the place where the sound was coming from for a while, but soon got bored and left to go sleep upstairs. Cause apparently, that's more exciting than cicada hunting.
There was nothing left to do. I simply left the shirt in the sink, cicada boyfriend in it and all. It's been three weeks, and I haven't dared touch the thing. He's probably created a small village inside there by this point. There's no telling--and I'm not looking, that's for sure.
17 years from now, I'm assuming our basement will be home to an entire planet of cicadas--and all of them will probably think I'm hott, too.
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