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Jenny is aware of the rule thanks to Brad, but she prefers to live in denial by refusing to think about it. I can't blame her. Who wants to imagine all those legs crawling down your throat and settling in your stomach? Just thinking about it kills my appetite and gives me the chills. Sean kills bugs for Heather without complaining, just as Simon kills them for Jane. Though I don't know for sure, I imagine that Brad has adjusted to hourly inspections and exterminations for his phobia-ridden girlfriend.

That leaves David, who acts as if God himself has called on him to teach me how to deal with my "psychological issue" with bugs. If I hear "Get over it, it's just a bug," one more time, I may end up explaining to a uniformed officer how, exactly, David came by that flyswatter-shaped welt on his face.

It may very well be "just a bug." But I can't control my quickened heartbeat, my shortness of breath, and the lasting itchiness that occurs when I must deal with a freaky-looking beast with wings and mandibles. Until someone develops a drug that numbs our reaction to bugs, the girly-girls of my family will have to come up with more clever ways to avoid them. I'm still waiting for an answer from NASA regarding my inquiry as to whether or not we've discovered an inhabitable, insect-free planet; it was my last resort and, if everything goes according to plan, it will make a great birthday present for Jenny.

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