Butterflies are the bane of my existence. Really. I hate them and fear them. Always have.
I woke up today to one of those “picture worth a thousand words” thingys in the paper and it was a wall of monarchs on some tree in Mexico. They migrated there for the winter and aren’t they magnificent, so fragile and yet so enduring? Gag me. I tried to look at it calmly, but it’s impossible for me to think about butterflies without some weird primal revulsion wire being tripped inside me.
And then they have those sanctuaries where you pay money and you go inside and they buzz around and hit you in the face. Like a Hitchcock movie, only with butterflies. And what’s worse, having your skin touched by their doughy little stubs of bodies or by their tissue paper wings? It’s a toss up, ask again when I’ve resumed consciousness.
This is my own personal hell will look like. The walls will be upholstered with monarch butterflies.
