At Least I'm Not A Cicada Mother
In case you are living under a rock, or more likely, in another part of the country, we here in the DC area are absolutely overrun by cicadas, which are clumsily flying, red-eyed, far-too-big insects that gestate in the ground for 17 years before emerging in one massive, festive, loud, debauched cicada parade that puts Mardi Gras to shame. It's probably more akin to Woodstock, because it features a ton of sex and laying around looking dazed.
Then after a few weeks, everyone dies. It's a highly compressed version of all our lives, really, complete with teenage awkwardness. If you think human puberty is bad, try busting out of your own skin in public. Yikes.
|This is a cicada molting. I have to credit my friend Beth N. with the awkward adolescent comparison. Reluctantly, because I just hate it when people think of smart, funny things before I do.
|Hello. I am the Cicada Messiah, and for all your money and free access to your wife, you can reign with me for 1,000 years.
|"I'm so proud," said Mrs. Cicada.