I spaketh and I delivereth...on my own fucking schedule, so go eat a cobag, or read on, if you like tales of large, hairy, arachnids and their complex relationships with their caregivers and life-essence providerers.
Some writers have written about the eternal nights and the depths of the human soul which they encounter while exploring said nights. I write not of such nights, nor am I lucky enough to experience such lovely, lonely nights on a regular basis. I write of nights filled with the sweet, dulcet tunes of creatures unfortunate enough to be birthed into a world of captivity and fear. they live their sad, short lives in constant dread of the moment of pain and poison which suddenly ends their miserable excuse for an existence. I write, of course, of the crickets that have hatched in my tarantula's terrarium.
These are the evolutionary equivalent of veteran soldiers. They are the spawn of crickets smart or lucky enough to have lied long enough to breed and lay eggs in the strata of my cohabitant's domain. I am amazed and bedazzled by the mere presence of unpaid-for crickets in my fanged roommate's portion of our small efficiency. She's quite and always pays the bills on time, so I count myself among the lucky few in the District. Back to the crickets.
I have counted more than seven of the little bastards in there with her. The first three that reached edible stage were eaten with a quickness, mostly likely due to the extended and involuntary, totally accidentally enforced, starvation of last Autumn. Also, they were the first to sing and chirp.
As one local stand up comedian remarked last summer at Live Humans, "it must suck to be a cricket violinist, because you know you'll never be as good as an Asian." All I can say is this, if I were an Asian violinist, I would hope, pray and practice so that I would not become prey. I have not heard much about Chinese tarantulas but I will admit to the great and species-wide fear we should all be fearing at the implication that there are arachnids preying on violinists of any region.
There are more circkets than I can count in Helob's terrarium than I can currently count due to my deificient lack of marking equipment and motivation. I think I counted somewhere between eleven and eighteen musicians of various tonnage. Currently, there are only one or two denizens capable of producing ear-splitting decibels and violations of my REM-pattern. I would blame my recent lack of worthy Celebrity Dream Cameo's but the one brilliant remaining dream of such quality is still in draft form among other languishing blog posts. I can not fairly blame the crickets for this because I am a huge slacker. I can blame them for thinking that my alarm is blaring at dawn, when it was clearly set for 11. I wish she would just harvest the life juice out of these six-legged bastards and be done with it.
Regarding the predator in discussion, she remains calm in the face of immanent financial ruin. She may have lost all her stock and options, but she's still got some living crickets and a slow metabolism. The second crop of crickets to reach singing age have recently begun inflicting their special brand of insomnilent torture upon me. I sincerely hope Helob either experiences a growth spurt and the incipient pangs, or gets bored with this version of Tchaikoveranskhovenonovachight's Third Symphony in A Major, Night Terrors alternate universe version. I would vastly prefer if she would just consume all the goddamn grass that grows and chirrips in her vastness.
I will state for the internetian record that there is very sparse irony at searching for the allowed variations of the word insomnia at 6:43 am on Sunday morning.
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