I don’t like bugs. By “don’t like,” I mean they make me run screaming like a little girl. I don’t know how this fear began. I was OK for most of my childhood. I don’t have any traumatic experiences involving bee stings when I was 8 years old or anything like that. I think it all began in early 1991, when my mother rented a little movie called Arachnophobia. You ever see this one? About swarms of killer spiders on the loose in a small town? The ads called it a “thrill-omedy,” so Mom rented it thinking it would be a scare comedy along the lines of Ghostbusters. But it was more “thrill” than “omedy” and I was covering my eyes during the climactic battle with the two foot long lead spider. From that day forth, I was afraid of spiders. As time went on, the fear grew, and now all bugs scare me. Well, there are some limits. I mean, ants and mosquitoes are OK. The way I see it, I don’t fear creepy crawly things as long as they are smaller than my big toe. When they’re as big as my foot, well then, I have a problem.
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