“Bugs ( insects, spiders, etc., not the bunny) and I have a complex relationship. I think they are amazing-- anatomy, behavior, the fact that we have very little in common. It all intrigues me immensely on both a curiosity and an aesthetic level, even if sometimes it takes me a few minutes to appreciate it. Also, generally, I prefer not to kill things, if it's avoidable. Trying to build good karma is hard enough without me ending tiny little lives when I get spooked in the kitchen. Instead, I try to overcome my lizard brain, wait for any surprise to subside, scoop the little alien-looking assholes up, and release them back into the wild (out the front door). Unfortunately, while this nonviolent policy worked well back in my home town in California, the stakes are higher here in the desert. Before, the worse thing I could run into (bug-wise) was a black widow. Currently, I spend my summer months bumping into all sorts of random, real life, Creepy Crawler mother fuckers with a range of weapons and attitudes. They still look cool. If anything, many of them seem more badass, and they are smart too, but that makes it worse. Take the scorpion for example, as I don't go a week without finding one in the vicinity of my sleeping place (a pile of laundry/tapes with 2 X-Files action figures, a portrait of Ray Bradbury and a lamp next to it). You don't just capture or "squish" a scorpion, you engage in mortal combat, and not in the exciting way with the "K" instead of "C." The fucked-up kind, like when two plane crash survivors are forced to fight over the last ounce of a stewardess. Everything about the moment's struggle feels more substantial than your average reckless act of human superiority. Both parties give off an air of desperate strategy and the room has a strangling musk to it. I can't explain in full but put plainly, it's hardcore shit and reminds me more of a street fight with a stranger, than a one-sided extermination. Plus, if I win (it's a statistics game at this point), I have to deal with that later. How am I supposed to live after killing something nearly as smart as me because I was afraid of his poison-butt-spear and secretly know I'm the real invader? It could be worse, I guess. I could be in a New England fishing village, facing an infestation of chemically enhanced roaches with a taste for flesh and a knack for lively impressions...”