The other day, I opened my medicine cabinet and a wasp flew out of it and into my face.
Let that sink in for just a minute.
A wasp. A killer fucking kill-you-dead-asshole fucking flying ass wasp flew out from my medicine cabinet and into my face.
Several things had to happen in the moment where death sat on my face like a dominatrix I didn’t pay for. I had to get it away from me by not swatting at it. I had to lock it in the room. I had to escape down the hall and get the wasp killer and gas it. I had to sit down and look out a window and think about what I had done with my life up to that point, and what I’d like to change now that I had almost died.
That’s what I needed to do.
What I did was scream loudly and spin around my bathroom wildly, crashing into the shower, pulling down the shower curtain, kicking over trashcans and stools and throwing my makeup bag all around while the wasp just rode on my nose through the entire affair. I cut my hand and bruised both my knees. I stepped on a tube of toothpaste. I screamed loudly enough that neighbors went outside their homes to see what the commotion was.
That motherfucker just stared me down, eye to hundreds of tiny creepy eyes, while I thrashed in pain and fear. He drifted with me, sharing a bit of his tiny soul with mine as we spun, sharing his thoughts of absolutely will to murder and maim and gore. He showed me what he’d do with my body when I died and I still dream about the horror of it today.
I gassed him for a solid minute once I broke free of his demon gaze. It took him that long to die. He was from Hell, sent to destroy me.
Not this time, wasp. Not this time.
Go home and hug your babies and hope you don’t have medicine cabinet wasps.