Just over an hour ago, I reached the point in the night/morning when I simply must go to sleep. My muscles feel sluggish, (even more than usual) my joints creak, my mind becomes foggy and I know that my body is begging me for reprieve.
I listened to these signs and began the long process of heading to bed. I closed my laptop, arranged my sheets just right, took my nightly pills, brushed my teeth and changed into a baggy tank top and boxer briefs (my favorite).
After a quick trip to the bathroom, I walked back to my bedroom and made my way over to the closet, expecting to close the door and proceed to climb into my cool, familiar sheets.
But, as I made the journey, I happened to look to my left to the bed/nest waiting for me. There, right below my right-side pillow where so many of my friends and potential partners have laid their heads, was a huge, brown, dusty moth.
Some backstory here: I have always been terrified of moths. To say that it’s a trait I was likely born with doesn’t seem unreasonable. They have always been my kryptonite. Over the years I have been known to scream upon their arrival, duck and cover at the site of their unpredictable and irregular flight patterns and avoid any room that I know to be home to one of the ugly Miller bitches.
So, naturally, seeing my arch nemesis in my most intimate of spaces, on the exact spot where I was going to unsuspectingly lay my head for the night was unsettling, to say the least. I grabbed a fistful of tissue paper left over from Mother’s Day present-wrapping and I pounced, trying to avoid the aforementioned squealing, so I didn’t wake up my roommate/mother.
My gift-wrapped hand engulfed the intruder and, for just a moment, I thought my problem was solved. That is, until I lifted my hand — tissue paper included — to see that the bumbling asshole was still very much alive and now more energetic than ever.
It proceeded to begin erratically flying around my room in that deeply disturbing way, hitting my spinning ceiling fan repeatedly as it traveled in circles. I quickly shuffled backwards, finding solace in my still-open and accessible closet <insert uninspired and too-easy joke about me going back in the closet here>.
Eventually, my opponent headed to a bedside table out of my view. I was finally able to walk forward and survey the damage to my bed. A quick glance revealed horrifying dusty marks on my black sheets, and some more residue on my white floral pillow case.
It was then I knew I was not going to be going to sleep any time soon.
I tried to find the godforsaken creature among the knick-knacks on my table, but found nothing. I rattled the tabletop, shook my bed and banged on my headboard, expecting something to fly out at me at any moment; but the loser seemed to be in for the night.
This was about the time I headed out into the hallway to repeat a whispered mantra of “Fuck. Fuck! FUCK!” Eventually I was able to regroup and conclude that I had a few options here:
1. I could let it go, cover up the dust marks on my bed with a towel, and pretend it didn’t happen — and maybe in another universe in which I don’t have anxiety issues that could have happened.
2. I could sleep in my niece’s room on pretty pink pony sheets in a lofted, child-sized bed about 3 feet from the ceiling.
3. I could sleep on the floor in the hallway.
4. I could wash my sheets, reopen my laptop, and sit cross-legged on my bare mattress waiting for my sheets to be rid of this incident so I may slip into my nurturing black hole of a bed (all the while being vigilant and keeping an eye out for the assailant).
I chose #4. Which brings us to now.
It’s 5:57 a.m., my sheets have another 20 minutes in the washer before they’ll make their way over to the dryer and Netflix is acting as my trusty sidekick/coping mechanism.
The moth has not been seen.