Hormiga gonna do somethin’ tonight
Sometimes when it gets all hot and sweaty like this on summer nights, I think of huge glistening cities of dark blood-red brick and oil-stained asphalt, crawling with bugs under an infested moon. It’s an exo world down here, and I’m just another goddamn vert trying to make my way through this mess, but the bugs have it over us in so many ways. I mean, why breathe through your mouth if you can wheeze through spiracles? Why amble about on two legs when you can totter around on six, or eight? Why bother talking when you can rub your antennae up against another bug’s, or else just thrust it in the air and pick up the weirdo bug vibrations?
Exos versus the verts, and the exos are winning. There’s way more of them, and they don’t give a fuck. They just keep breeding like goddamn bugs, and they’re not sentimental about anything. I know this; I’ve had more than a few late-night telepathic conversations with various members of the genus Blattella germanica, otherwise known as Keith Richards with six legs and no guitar, while under the captive perceptual straits of various stable alkaloids and a few rather unstable ones, and what was up with that is that B. germanica don’t give a rat’s ass about much of anything as long as there’s food and crap and other junk laying about. Not that cockroaches are great conversationalists; even in fluent bug, they just grunt and mumble like old drunks. You want conversationalists? Beetles are where it’s at.
What am I on about here? I dunno. Damn hot weather messes me up if I get used to cooler climes, and like I said, hot weather puts me in a buggy mood. So I’m sitting here and some Tom Waits comes on, and that even makes me buggier. I’m sheer trouble when I get in this frame of mind, so I figure I’d better write something about it and hope it passes soon, and then I can move on to something else.
Hope it goddamn cools down soon. I’m a pussy about this shit. Seriously. —Jackson Griffith