I am programmed to loathe bugs entirely. The flying kind, even more so. The flying wannabe, beautiful butterfly kind, the most.
We entertained friends for dinner last night and when 9pm rolled around and every. last. one. of us was shoving toothpicks into our eyelids, because, “When the hell did we get sooooooo oooooooold?!”, it was time to bid our guests a sweet farewell.
Dead bolt, undone. Door, unlocked. Hugs, distributed. Knucks, pounded. Then, right then, it happened…

What appeared to be something Bastian Balthazar Bux would be clinging to for dear life in 1984...