|Doug's a little blurry, but whatever.|
He's a dung beetle. I got him a week before I turned 30, so I could blame it on "being in my twenties."
Yup. A dung beetle. The sort that rolls poop around while doing a headstand. The idea popped into my head that I needed a dung beetle on my wrist, and wouldn't let go for years. I used to draw him there with Sharpie, to try to cut down on the physical itch. It itched! It has not itched since I had him hammered into my skin with a needle.
Whatever possessed me to get a tattoo of a shit-rolling insect?
As I washed my arm, and stared at my bug, it crossed my mind- this is my goddamn spirit animal. I should embrace it.
Dealing with animal shit (real and metaphorical) is my fucking superpower. I can roll my ball longer and farther than anyone I know.
Dog acting like an asshole? Roll roll roll.
Cat doing awful things? Roll roll roll.
Rats chewing their way out of their cage? Roll roll roll.
All of them causing me to hemorrhage cash? Roll roll roll.
Spiderman's uncle told him "with great power comes great responsibility." Sorry, Uncle Ben, but no. For the Beetle People, it's inverted (we stand on our heads, you know- everything is inverted). Great responsibility supplies the great power. We roll our shit like champions because we HAVE to roll our shit like champions. There is no other option. There is no stopping. There is no sitting in the web, waiting. There is no alternative cuisine. There is the shit, and the rolling. You have to love your shitball.
I'm not going to struggle against this anymore. I'm just going to embrace it.
|Behold! The Scarab! Whose lower lip sometimes doesn't respond properly to commands.|