#it's 99% of what spawned 'unspoken exceptions'

[bnrobertson1]

Bug Karma

Since spring sprung, my mornings have begun with a game of Whack-O-Mole. Except in this ersatz version of the arcade staple, the moles are pen-tip tiny. And roaches. The daily activity starts the second I turn on my bathroom lights, when my post-sleep fugue evaporates at the sight of black dots formlessly scattering all around me. As their abyss-black bodies dart upon the cool bone-colored tiles, the contrast complementing their impressive speed, the onslaught of stimulation typically reduces my lizard-brain to its bug-blood-thirsty, smashy base.

The older- and stranger- I get, the more I think about tests in life that we didn’t even realize we were taking. They happen all the time when you're young- building with blocks gets you places using them as projectiles does not. As you age, these unspoken quizzes often take forum in the super fun world of sexual chemistry- the loose word or beat-too-long nose pick rendering you genitalia non grata before your charm even has an opportunity to work its “magic”. Oftentimes the grader isn't even aware they’re giving it, like when you overhear a friend talking about a Dave Matthews Band concert and it renders them into a soggy, pestilent albatross mid-comment, at no real fault of their- or your- own.

Are the early morning roaches a karmic test of some sort? An opportunity to show I do indeed have mercy in my soul? The roaches, while unsightly, don’t exactly *do* anything except make me think about how if Marvel created a Roach-man, one of their powers would most certainly be quickness because those fuckers can travel many-times-their-body-length in slivers of seconds. They’re not eating my crops or abducting my children/pets. Hell, I rarely see them during the day besides when the bathroom and/or kitchen light pierces their slumber. Sure, their dumps do spark allergenic reactions, but does my dislike of sniffling outweigh their right to exist? Are my sightlines more important than their anguish, pain and heritage? Is the strange rush I get when flattening them the type of exhilaration that should be sought? It all starts spawning “Consider the Lobster”-esque questions fairly quickly.

Hoping to alleviate some of this existential heft, I called Pest Control. Clearly, I was ignorant about how minimally-invasive Pest Control works. Essentially, what happens is a nice man comes in and puts down boxes roughly the size of a blackboard eraser, filled with poisonous chemicals that initially attract the bugs. The bugs take the bait, return to their nest, die, and then are eaten by their young, poisoning them in the process. On paper it makes sense and seems humane, but in practice it can get intense.

For starters, the chemicals act as a meth & aphrodisiac concoction to the roaches, so you see more of the insects than you were aware existed as they swarm to the boxes o’ death like 99 cent Snow Crab Night at the Golden Corral Slots Casino buffet. From there, dead roaches just start appearing everywhere, which is a bit jarring, but less so than the roaches who bypass the whole “returning to nest” part to parish quite dramatically- moving around spastically, the shredding of their nervous system impossible not to think about as their death march aimlessly sprints then abruptly ends. It reminded me of Saving Private Ryan, with (slightly) less Tom Sizemore. Their suffering- while seemingly brief- is simply too vivid to ignore. At least with my HULK SMASH technique the bugs are obliterated instantly*.

But as I walk upon the roach graveyard that once was my 600 sq ft apartment, I wonder: Is it all some sort of test? As a modern Westerner, it has been stamped into my psyche that I will be judged by the summation of personal and professional accomplishments, minus my aggressions and misdeeds. The amount of bugs - or any non-human animal- killed is not in the equation. While this considered calculation gives an agreeable shape to life’s trajectory, when taking a step back, it does seem more like a societal force generated to help the group more than the individual. Could ascension actually be in that which we consider arbitrary? Should Henry Ford spent his time saving bugs instead of building cars and hating Jews? Are roaches albatrosses in 6-legged disguise? Will one of the bugs I demolished have a similar size advantage in the next plane of existence? Will it forgive me? Will it crush me? (Much smaller things already can and do). If I passed the test and let the bugs be would I have been granted lifetime admittance at the Blow Job Factory? Perhaps we're being tested on things society values less than the product of (# of Kids) x ($ Salary). Is creating the most laughs, growing the most lavish garden, feeding the hungriest hippos, or, indeed, sparing the most roaches the real thing will decide what happens to our eternal souls?

While I (clearly) don't have the answer, I do find it profound how our animal instincts are connected to our higher intelligences. How the simple sight of a black dot moving on your bathroom floor can birth thoughts about existence itself, and whether a big, handsome hand will smash your ass or the consumption of too much poison will be the thing sets you on the road to chaotic oblivion. Whenever we go to the great beyond, will the key to heaven, happiness, hell or Hanoi be given or withheld because of acts towards humanity or your transgressions against all life? One thing is for sure: if God is a roach, I’m fucked.

*Ya, I’ve been working out. Whatevs.

Enemy or Path to Enlightenment?