It was a random summer day, back when I was working at the bookstore. I was shelving books at the back of the store. Shelving books was actually one of my favourite tasks, because it allowed me to be organized, and when it was my sole duty, it also meant that I rarely had to stop to help customers.
SIDENOTE: Customers. What a drag.
Anyway, there I was shelving books. I had about six copies of one book that all needed to go together (obviously), so I had to move some others out of the way. I reached for a book and OUT OF NOWHERE a cricket jumped at my face.
A cricket?! What the fuck?!
I screamed – naturally – and the cricket jumped toward me again. My manager, with whom I had become friends, was pretty close by, so I yelled at him and he trapped the cricket underneath the stepping stool I had been using to reach the top shelves.
That’s all you need to know. Well, it’s all that happened.
It was traumatic.
Another day, one of my friends called me and told me about how she hadn’t been sleeping in her bedroom for the last few days, because the crickets she kept in a tank to feed to her chameleon had somehow escaped and were all over her room, chirping.
That didn’t even happen to me and it was traumatic.
At my desk at work, my hard drive sits on top of a thick piece of Styrofoam. To be honest, I have no idea why the Styrofoam is there, because the height difference doesn’t seem to change anything about the setup, but it’s always been there, so I’ve never questioned it.
When I sit at my desk, I often cross one leg over the other, and sometimes, my dangling foot will rub against the Styrofoam ever so slightly. When it does this, the Styrofoam makes a very light squeaking sound.
Without fail, EVERY TIME I hear the squeak, I panic and think there’s a cricket under my desk.
I’d love to tell you that this has only happened a few times in the eight or whatever months I’ve been at my job. I’d love to tell you that. But it happens more like 30 times a day.
Lesson learned: It sure didn’t take much for me to be destroyed by crickets.
P.S. If you’re keeping track of super cool shit I do at work, here’s a bonus story. I did a fairly intense chest and back strength training workout last night, so my pecs and “wings” (right under the armpit) are super sore. Right near the end of my work day, I was gripping my sore pecs because, well, they were sore, when some random guy I have never seen on my floor before walked by. He stared at me in horror while I seemingly cupped my own tits.
So that was awesome.