I used to have a policy of not killing ladybugs — bad karma, I figured, like bonking the Easter Bunny on the head with a sledgehammer or pissing on a rainbow. Then our pool house burned down, melting all the siding from our home. I’ll never forget the sight of those ladybugs, those hundreds of thousands of ladybugs, coating the naked wall so sinisterly.
It’s not that I wanted to hurt them, it’s just that neither did I want them feasting on my bedroom, and when I’d scoop up a handful of ladybugs trying to munch their way inside, if I happened to maim a ladybug or two I no longer felt any remorse. You could say I’d relaxed my policy. The Easter Bunny wasn’t funny anymore.