Happy birthday to me.
Happy birthday to me.
Happy birthday, dear Michael.
Happy birthday to me.
Oh, wait. I think I’m violating Warner Chappel Music’s copyright by publishing these lyrics. Oh, well.
Thirty-four years old. At least I still have a full head of hair (that is, of course, when I don’t shave it off).
The cicadas aren’t really out in full force this year—at least not in the way their six-legged army carpeted New Jersey last summer. Still, though, you can hear the constant, droning resonance of the males whenever you walk outside.
During their “off years,” they mostly seem to keep out of sight. However, I came across the specimen below walking across a paved path outside my workplace.
What caught my attention with this freakish little guy was his malformed wing. Apparently, metamorphosis didn’t go so well for him. Normally, when they crawl out of their nymphal skins, their wings are supposed to unfold and dry out. In his case, one of his wings got stuck and hardened in a twisted, deformed, useless state.
If he could talk, he’d probably say, “Get this scanner lid off of me!” Or maybe, “Some days it just isn’t worth coming out of your shell.”
