I need a man to run to from a bug!

I need a man to run to
when I see a bug,
not just any bug—
the sort with wings like a tiny helicopter
and legs that seem to dance
in the chaos of my living room.

I've got my sandals on,
ready for action,
but when it flutters near my ear,
my heart’s doing a solo in the fright club.
My feet?
They might as well be glued to the floor,
screaming inside while the bug performs
its aerial acrobatics.

So I need a man—
not a superhero, just a dude
who will strut in, maybe in flip-flops,
and say, “What’s the fuss?”
Meanwhile, I’m on the couch,
a scared kitten,
explaining via high-pitched squeaks
that the bug is plotting world domination.
At least my psych drama is free entertainment.

“Is it big?” he’ll ask with that casual grin,
and my eyes go wide,
as I point, “That! It’s a giant monster!”
I swear it winks at me—
my imagination isn’t helping,
but who can blame a girl
for inventing conspiracies
when faced with an eight-legged alien passerby?

He strolls toward it,
like he’s going to throw a taco or something,
and I’m there lifting my legs like a gymnast,
yelling, “That’s not the solution!”
But then he grabs a cup,
and I think, “Okay, he’s got a plan.”

Nothing fancy, no lasers or shields,
just a classic case of ‘catch-the-bug.’
I watch, sweat pooling in all the wrong places,
heart pounding out a heavy metal solo.
It scoots across the table,
and I’m like a character in a horror movie—
clutching pillows and gasping loudly enough
to alert the neighbors.

And just like that,
he’s got it, trapped.
I peek from behind my rock,
half-proud, half-terrified,
as he smugly carries it out,
probably talking to it like a wise sage.
“If you can’t handle the room, pal,
you don’t belong in my girlfriend’s space.”

Still clinging to the sofa,
now an audience member in my own life,
I hope this bug lesson
was worth the price of admission.
“Thanks, man,” I say, breathless,
while giggling through nervous jitters.
I know I’ll shout for him again,
because in the high-stakes game
of girl vs. bug,
he’s like my secret weapon—
a taco-flipping, bug-vanquishing hero
with a cup in one hand and my sanity in the other.