A happy ladybird

A ladybird just landed on my keyboard. It looks lively like it’s dancing to the music by Yellowcard. How can a journey in my room be so exciting? The bug has a dirty bottom, I think it’s taking a shit.

It’s a clear fact that women hate getting their period, but it’s a part of their life, starting at 11, 12 or 13. By now, they’re used to the monthly pain or call it an uncomfortable twisting feeling in the abdomen.

Isn’t it funny that when your period doesn’t come, you start to panic? You either suspect you are pregnant or menopause is kicking in. Again, funny how something infuriating like the monthly blood can become such a crucial part of you, as it tells a lot about you. It constitutes security and identity (…femininity). Mine was a day and a half late, and I almost panicked for no reason. I haven’t had sex, and I’m nowhere close to forty – I just panicked. Every woman senses this monthly bloodlust, but the majority isn’t aware of it.

My little dotted friend has disappeared. I have to make sure I don’t accidentally crush it when it comes back. Why would it come and go like that?

Two foxes have a fistfight outside. It sounds like a girl is being attacked. I wonder whether they are arguing about the reality of the grapes. Wikipedia’s example of cognitive dissonance illustrates a hungry fox looking at grapes that were out of reach. To ease the frustration, he thinks to himself that they aren’t ripe anyway.

This is a period of my life where self-awareness is inevitable. My mental hands are rummaging around in my head, heart and stomach. I have learned to trust my guts, but often, doing nothing is the best option. Let people question you in their heads. Not that you care.

I’ve also accepted the fact that I’m small. I mean, as long as I can reach out for what I want, I’m fine. Desires beyond my reach are usually heart-related anyway – you don’t need hands, just electric impulses.

Where is my little friend? I want to see that dance again…

There was a period in my life where I used to catch ladybirds and kept them in a glass jar. I tried to build a little territory for them by placing pebbles and leaves in the jar.

Though I should have pierced tiny holes through the lid for air…

When you do bad things as a child, you feel sorry later. But when you do bad things as a delinquent, you regret nothing. And as an adult, you can’t even tell good from wrong anymore. Next time you do it, you remember who you used to be.

Years ago, when I read about Kant saying that goodwill is the only good we are ever left with, I couldn’t agree more, but now I no longer understand it.

I think my little dotted friend has found its bed in the socket. It’s fallen asleep before me.

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