Mo’ Mothey Mo’ Problems

I just got betrayed by a moth.


That’s right. A motherfucking punkass moth.


Last week this moth entered my life, swooping its way into my living room like a jet of Black Death, wings carving through the air and doing death laps in our lampshade. I am deathly afraid of moths (the fact that I have used the word “death” three times in the last 27 words should indicate this). I squealed like a girl (which I feel is permissible given the circumstances) and ducked under the doona. Yet even this crafty survival defence did not fool it. It lunged again at me, I could basically hear the flap of its gigantic wings, as if Dumbo himself were in the room. I tuck-rolled out of there with the agility of Bear Grylls and counted myself lucky (and refused to enter said room for several days).


Tonight, I was reflecting on Moth. Had I been too harsh on Moth? Unwilling to accept difference in my own home? I climbed the stairs to my room, with a look of pensiveness that would put Nietzsche to shame, wondering whether man (Tess) and moth (Moth) could ever put their differences aside when BAM BAM I’LL BE DAMNED IF IT ISN’T MOTHERFUCKING PUNKASS MOTH. It was a dog move, an attack from above when I was without stable footing on the stairs. Luckily, I parkoured my way through the balusters, over the bannister and into my room. Sweat dripping from my glistening torso, muscles aching, heart pounding, I slumped against the door, refusing to give in to the inevitable onset of PTSD. I had other thing to do, I had to move on with my life, I had to write my blog. But before I blog, a glass of water. I snuck out of the room, moth senses tingling. I ensured the parameters (the door) were secure (was shut). It was a successful mission; both moth-free and hydrating.


Although I was jonesing to do my blog, gagging for it, brimming with passion and lofty ideas, I had to put off my most highly-prized hobby once again. I have work tomorrow, and to ensure the whole operation is a success, the day’s outfit must be laid out beforehand so I can slip into it Wallace and Gromit style. I ventured out onto the landing and retrieved my black leather singlet (it’s classy, not Village People, I promise). As I shut the door safely behind me, feeling the soft leather between my fingers, straightening it so it was hanger-ready, a black object fell from its innards. A coin, I hoped. A big ball of fluff, I prayed. A filthy, blackened tissue, I pleaded. But no. It was Moth.


He had kept still on the journey in, perfectly camouflaging himself against the black material, laying lay as I carried him into my room, as if he were some kind of high maintenance prince and I a lowly manservant, delivering him to his abode. The worst part of this was fearing my blog post would never get done. I could see where the twat had flown, a dark little cranny between two bags. I exited the room, again parkouring my way throughout the house. Flinging open doors, desperately rifling through our laundry cupboard, bustling through the crowded streets of Shanghai and knocking over old people in search of my trusty Mortein. Once located, I did that cool one-handed-gun twirl thing and placed it into my holster, bounding up the stairs and ready to pound this moth.


I grabbed a Converse in my free hand as an impromptu fencing device, lunging at the bags, ready to parry the crafty moth. Nothing. Moth had relocated. I dropped the Mortein, choosing to prod my way through the room. Nothing. Cunning moth bastard. Then, when I was about to throw down my shoe in defeat, I see the foot-long moth crouching on my valance, eating small children and doing heroin and posting spoilers of Breaking Bad on Facebook – seriously, this guy was a piece of work. I crouched beside the tyrant, my Chuck poised strategically, adrenaline coursing through my veins, and just as I calculated my move one last time, Moth scurried under the bed.


It’s hard not to feel overwhelmed at moments like this.


But we live and we learn and we turn the lights off in the room and turn on all the other lights in the house and hope to coax out the moth and weep silently into our laps. I had hesitated, and now the villain was loose. Wreaking havoc on the old socks and belly button fluff that have a peaceful existence under my bed. Hatred boiled up inside me, loathing hardened my heart and my desire to blog drove me onwards. I grabbed a hold of my sneaker and my Mortein, ready for one last battle. Slyly lifting the valance, I doused the underside of the bed in the deadly juice, “MORTEIN MEET MOTH, YOU MOTHERFUCKER!” I squealed. I took both hands and violently shook the bed “SHOW YOURSELF, YOU SPINELESS TURD” I bellowed. It was then, it what in the 11th hour (quite literally, have you seen how long this blog post is?) that I saw the metre-long moth, escaping his fate (or so he though) and resuming his position on the valance. I hesitated before. Innocent people died. Blog posts were postponed. How much trauma can one room see? Without a second thought, I struck down upon thee Moth with great vengeance and furious anger. Guts flew (all over my essay, one last asshole move from old mate Moth), dusty wing shit powdered the floor, and Moth was destroyed.




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