alcippe | (no subject)

I come across a large insect struggling on the sidewalk, about an inch long, maybe a bit bigger. It's a cockroach, and two of it's back legs are smashed. It's a hot, muggy August night and the creature must have wandered out from the safety of the cozy drain it's been living in for the past decade, only to be partially mashed by an errant shoe or bicycle tire. The thing is trying to maneuver itself, struggling over and over to move it's oozing legs and walk, but it makes no progress, and it's antennae twirl in agitation. I watch it for a moment and I wonder if it is in pain? If it is afraid? I know it can't have long to live in its condition, smashed up like it is. It must have a nervous system. Of course it does. Of course it has some sense of distress. So that's it, down comes my shoe and I smash it as hard and solid as I can. There, it's done.

I look up and see that I am near a ritzy club with all sorts of slinky girls hanging around outside the entrance. They wear satin hot pants and silky dresses paired with high high heels, and I feel so different from them. Gold Diggers; they're the future Wives of America, the future Mothers of America, laughing loudly as they're gently petted, prodded and shepherded around by their boyfriends.

And I'm the cockroach mercy killer.

My lungs are in pain tonight and I'm not so sure this bronchitis is going to go away on it's own after all. Monday I will go see a doctor if my condition has not improved; walking Pneumonia is not something I want to deal with.