It wants to devour my entrails as I sleep.

I hate bugs. It's not that I despise them so much as I fear them. They're just so... unnatural. I hear them chirping outside at night while I want to go to sleep. If these chirps and clicks were made with two little lips, I'd be fine. Those chirps and whistles are made with gnashing mandibles, whipping wings, and malevolent little knees. It's obscene.

There's a bug on the bedroom ceiling. I told my wife about it. Her cold reply? "It won't kill you."

That's not the point. It's a bug! I told her again, "I don't like it."

"It won't hurt you," she nonchalantly commented, not even looking up from whatever silly book has her fancy.

Finally, I screamed "It's EVIL!"

And you know what she said? "So don't go up there."

So now she's in the bedroom, crooning to the bug, and I'm out here in the kitchen, hoping that it doesn't find me. And I have a sudden urge to go climb on the ceiling.

My wife is so cruel. She named the bug "Hippocrates." I was reserving that name for our firstborn.