Tue, 18 Jan 2000
I have noticed a series of arthropod plagues in this apartment ever since I moved in. First, a wave of earwigs swept through; then, the dainty little roaches started tripping along the carpet; next, a swarm of crickets did their jitterbug dance; a series of small black hunting spiders peppered the walls after that, followed most recently by an inexplicable grouping of houseflies on the walls, buzzing at me as I try to read myself to sleep. Do I look to the Bible for guidance, or shall the three Misters enlighten me as to the cause of these sporadic visitations?
At least they take turns.
Which is more than you can say for Mister Dark and Mister Malice.
A more cynical Mister might guess that the insects invade your home just so they can get a dramatic write-up in a popular and influential advice column. You, madam, are the Supreme Mistress of Insect Prose, I dare say. Give National Geographic a call.
Eschew the Bible, for this is the source of your plagues: You are sweet as Christmas candy. Your skin flakes (shed at an amazing and easily looked up rate which I am too far away from an encyclopedia to confirm) attract the underground legions like nice black pants attract cats. Genetic mutation has made you the entemologic equivalent of a Freeze-Pop, and all the little scarabs want a lick. Learn to live with it, I say. Learn to live with your sweet self, your sugary goodness, your glucose gestalt.
Mister Wonderful, after all, has learned to live with his attractiveness.