I am a beetle.

I am a beetle.

My wife was disgusted with my insect transformation. "When I said for better or for worse, it didn't include this! You molted all over the new satin sheets! Besides, you stink!"

"What kind of Kafka-esque nonsense is this?" my spouse continued, "You never could do anything original." Outraged, I wiggled my six new legs at her.

She screamed, "You bug the hell out of me!" I've morph-plagiarized myself into a giant cockroach and she's crackin' wise. Geez. But then I saw the blinding light of the mushroom cl

ap-on lamp. I clapped & they shut off. All six of my legs relaxed. I rested my cute little cockroach head in my front two feet and sighed. "Lady stop buggin' me with your antics!"

I shut my little cockroach eyes as the lamp was suddenly turn on again. That's it! I thought. This means war! That old lady wasnt going to know what hit her! Time to unleash

my cockroach muster! Climbing over my twitching, dying comrades, I scuttled under the stove as the old lady went for the broom & dustpan, & asked myself what would Gregor Samsa do?

I, cockroach, became a man who was becoming a cockroach. "I shall not die alone in the trash!" I decided oratingly (haha) and found a nice tasty heap of rubbish.

And of course it's not just the taste of the rubbish that a cockroach enjoys, but the texture and scent and the noise it can make. So when the sketchy lump of a man who shared my

deluxe repurposed under-the-bridge cardboard house noticed that we had "visitors", he promptly moved out. I was glad, though. My cockroaches and I wanted the place to ourselves.