When I was five I’d collect little bugs outside for recess, then, much to my parents’ dismay, make a home for them in the deep-sewn pockets of my green plaid jumper. I thought they were cute. The fear of insects is taught, not ingrained. In some countries, insects are food; people’ll fry bugs on a stick and sell them in the streets.
Bugs on a stick. Two days before New Years my friend and I ventured into the closest-to-hipster part of town, where my boyfriend and I watched a comedy show over quesadillas and orangey drinks. We found a little shop harkening back to the 60’s, where they sold pop sodas in glass bottles of every flavor imaginable–coffee pop! mayo soda! blueberry pie pop!–as well as ant candies. There was even an open flap on the top and I ran my fingers over the pink sugary glaze, lumpy dead ants like roadbumps in the street.
We skirted around the city, from a cafe to the contemporary museum to the design district to the art museum, where a stolid quiet leftover Frida sat staring out at the viewer. My friend swiped tirelessly across the orange wall. Left swipe, right right, left swipe, left swipe. Relentless Tindering!
On another note, do you ever wonder if so-or-so–say, the quiet girl in middle school gym class whom you never spoke to and suspected didn’t like you but was generally indifferent towards and had never had a boyfriend–ever got a boyfriend?