I killed a bug on my windshield a couple of weeks ago; I smacked it with the back of my hand as I was pulling into the Target parking lot. I was in a rush and didn't feel like looking for a napkin or receipt on which to wipe away the carcass. I'm embarrassed to admit the dead bug's body remains on my windshield today. It's gross and I have clearly had the time to dispose of it, but I for some perverse reason, I haven't. Every time I glance at it (it's just out of my sight line) I am reminded of my own mortality. How every day when I drive on the interstate or speed through a yellow light, in the blink of an eye, it could be me on splattered on that windshield, not a tiny speck of a bug. It'll probably remain on my windshield until someone like my mom or sister climbs in and, in a display of utter disgust, reaches for a tissue and wipes it off.
This seems terribly morbid, doesn't it?
Thursday?
8 years ago
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