ANXIETY HELL

Yesterday as I sped to meet a girlfriend for coffee, I noticed something moving near the top of my vision. At first I thought it was just a huge eye floater, which bothered me, but did not freak me out nearly as much as when it swooped down and hit me in the face.

At this point I realized I’d either developed some James Cameron super 3D floaters, or I was about to have my own Chris Farley in Tommy Boy moment.

It buzzed back in my vision and hit me in the cheek. I shrieked and took both hands off the wheel to swat at my attacker. It landed on my left boob, which led to more screaming, and the second I looked back up, a high-pitched skid as I slammed on the brakes and missed the bumper of the car in front of me by a millimeter.

Freaking out that nature’s winged beast was now affixed to my chestal region and apparently attempting to breast feed, I pulled a hard right into a parking lot, nearly flattening an old lady leaving Grower’s Direct. I glanced back down and yelped, “What are you doing, bug? I’m not freaking lactating. Get…,” I plucked at the fabric around it, trying to trampoline fling it at the windshield, “Off!”

I thrust the car door opened and flew out, jumping up down whilst flicking at my teet. I hopped about squealing Beaker meeps that happened to create a nice harmony over The Pointer Sister’s “I’m so Excited” blaring from my open vehicle and adding to my embarrassment.

Finally, the mutant surrendered its calling as the world’s smallest breast pump. It spread its wings to fly toward some other unsuspecting driver. It was at that moment when I noticed its red and black pattern.

Sweet Jesus, I thought. I almost crashed my car, hit an old lady, and gave myself a public breast exam over a ladybug.

But in my defense, they really are creepy little insects, especially when they’re trying to milk you. It was definitely not baby sized so there’s just no excuse. It was large, which begs the question: Was it a lesbian ladybug? Obviously so.

I’m telling you, do not let the name fool you. Do you think it’d be any less to disturbing to find yourself driving along in your car only to have a gentleman worm drop down on your lap?

You think you’d just keep cruising down the highway in your Camero, the T-top open, your skullet blowing wind, as you act like you don’t care that an episode of Fear Factor is taking place on your cod piece? No, you’d probably crash because only the name of the sick creature and not the reality of it is a euphemism.

Your crotch-diving gentleman worm would not sport a little bow tie under his slimy neck any more than my ladybug donned a bonnet. It was not a lady. It was a bug. And it attacked me.

So stop trying to make me feel like a freak for calling this ladybug what she really is and that is Anxiety Activator number sixty-one.