There's a bug of some sort in the trash can beside my desk. I can hear it scritch scritching against the thin plastic liner, trying to escape.
It's been there all morning.
The sound is driving me nuts. I can't concentrate on my writing.
My overactive imagination stops me from freeing it.
It probably doesn't have two inch pincers on its mandibles. It probably doesn't excrete flesh eating acid from its thoracic spiracles. It probably isn't plotting to sting me into submission, devour my left eyeball and lay eggs in my eye socket.
Probably not.
But why take the chance?
.
.
.
It's been there all morning.
The sound is driving me nuts. I can't concentrate on my writing.
My overactive imagination stops me from freeing it.
It probably doesn't have two inch pincers on its mandibles. It probably doesn't excrete flesh eating acid from its thoracic spiracles. It probably isn't plotting to sting me into submission, devour my left eyeball and lay eggs in my eye socket.
Probably not.
But why take the chance?
.
.
.
