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Oscillating rapidly between fox twink and wolf tomboy
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I don't know how I feel about moths.

In a lot of places I hang out, in a lot of online circles I'm in, moths get posted occasionally. The kind with big, dark, round eyes, and bright colors, and soft wings. They look like such precious little things. They're fuzzy, practically fluffy, like itty-bitty little puppies. In photos, they look directly into the camera like they're just so curious why you're pointing that shape at them. They're tiny miracles that don't know how beautiful they are.

These aren't the kinds of moths in my area. Where I live, right near a forest, with a muggy summer and a brutal winter, the moths that live here are gray, plain, and drab. The 'eating your coat' kind, the 'flocking to your zappers and porch lights' kind. They don't stop to perch and look at you. They don't seem soft or appealing. They're too small for you to see their eyes.

Those are the ones I grew up with, and they give me a sense of... plausible deniability. The kind I look at, and the part of my brain that compartmentalizes reality says, 'This is a bug. This is an inferior creature, too small and too simple to know it is real, and that it is inhabiting a space at a time; it exists to feed, reproduce, and subsequently die. Whatever happens to them, it isn't important; it can't be important; they're simply too small.'

The kind of thoughts that make me believe that, if they intruded into my space, I could just swat them. What's the harm, after all. There's billions of bugs, and they don't belong in my home. This is my little sphere of safety I've carved out of a world that doesn't want me in it; I deserve at least that much.

So, when I see bugs in my house, like spiders, or flies, or moths, that's my instinct. Get them gone before they touch something, as mindless and efficient as might be necessary.

To be honest, I recognize what that makes me. I don't think less of people who take better care to put bugs outside; in fact, I wish I had their patience. I wish I could be such a thoughtlessly good person that I don't even crush bugs. But I stress easily. I'm prone to decisions I quickly regret. I'm good at doing things I hate.

And so when I look at the pictures people post of the photogenic kind of moth-- the soft, plush little things that don't even seem real with how pretty and sweet they seem-- I don't think I see the same thing that other people do.

I think about the tiny, delicate, fragile body within the pastel fur.
I think about the innocence in those beady, gentle little eyes.
And I think about how easily my careless touch would destroy it.
I think about how short this creature's tiny blip of a life must be.
I start to imagine how it would crush if treated like a 'regular' moth.
I start to wonder why that thought makes my stomach churn.
I start to wonder why I care so much about an insect.
An 'inferior creature'.
A 'bug'.

I start to wonder what makes me pretend this one is different.
I remember how many times I've cleared my windowsill of intrusive spiders.
I think about the stinkbugs that have crawled their way to the kitchen.
I think of the rolls of fly tape we used to go through when I was little.

And I realize, I can't count how many times I've failed to be a patient person.

I don't know how I feel about moths. And I already know that isn't their fault.


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