when moths attack

As insects go, moths are good people. I sort of feel an affinity toward the tiny beast. You see, they start as ugly and malformed and then they go through an awkard phase and blossom into something similarly ugly and malformed, but this time with wings. Much like a moth, I began as a malformed infant (but a chubby cute lil thing), went into my awkward teen years, which spilled well into my 20s, and now, nearing 30, I'm clearly far from a butterfly.

That being said, though I consider moths my brothers from another mother, I wish they wouldn't flutter like spazzes around my face. The light on my porch is kinda like the Club 54 of moths from my neighborhood. It's the place to be if you didn't emerge from the chrysalis as a beautiful butterfly. Only the biggest and most important moths can hang--and I mean big.

This evening, I returned from a couple of beers and a meeting for the movie and ended up on the porch and the biggest flailing moth dance party of the week. Thursday must be Ladies Night. My roommate was gone and the front door was locked, but I was determined to get inside without an incident. The moths were not following the same game plan. Apparently, Moth Club 54 has a strict no human policy, and the natives were ruffled by my presence. Countless flailing moths boinked off my shorn scalp as I scrambled for my keys. I handled it well at first, but quickly resorted to pleading.

"Please," I said. "I just want to get into my house."

But they didn't listen. The scalp boinking continued at a feverish pace. I finally burst into my house after yanking my key out of the deadbolt lock, leaving what was left of my dignity outside with the moths.