i think a bug is burning in my light fixture. there is nothing i can do about it. still, i turn off the light, knowing that when i turn it on next, the bug’s remains will still be there, but maybe they won’t smell quite as bad as they do now, fresh and still pulsating with a life just lost. then i say, oh what the hell. let’s electrocute the living daylights out of the sucker. he’s past gone anyway. so i choose to suffer the stench of burning bug. just as i’m grossing myself out with the thought of his charred bug-body, somebody calls out, “why does it smell like steak in here?”
one man’s burning bug, another man’s steak dinner.
life is just that way. a journey between tilting points in time where we find ourselves hem-hawing over the question: do i turn the light off or do i leave it on? which causes the least suffering? and for who? decisions. decisions. decisions.
the best part is when that stench actually does in fact begin to smell like steak. and it did, too.