Freakin’ lovebugs. Nasty, stinkin’, good-for-nothin’ lovebugs. I hate this time of year here in Louisiana, for one reason. The lovebugs have set up housekeeping here. For about four more weeks. Those of you who have never had the opportunity, the absolute joy, of lovebug season are truly missing out. Native to the gulf states (because we don’t have enough to contend with this time of year — hel-LOOOOOO?), these nasty little insects arrive at two different times – May and September. They ruin the beginning of my two favorite seasons. They come in here, with their nasty little connected selves, and wreak havoc on everything in their path.
They. Are. Everywhere. They fly into the house if the door is open for but a minute. They wiggle their way into every little nook and cranny they can find. I actually discovered one of them in between the glass and picture of a framed poster hanging on my wall. Weekends are devoted to sweeping the dead little bastards out of the door thresholds and windowsills. They love the color white, for some odd reason. One year they were so bad that the white columns outside my back door were literally black.

And they stick to your car grille and windshield. And since an average of 1.7 million of them fly into the path of any given car on any given day, cleaning them off is a daily necessity. Because they decompose and eat into the paint of your car. Or get into the condenser of the radiator.

Our exterminator says they are nature’s most useless insect. They neither eat any pests nor do any other insects eat them. They are so nasty that they even taste awful to other, awful-tasting bugs. And the exterminator can’t kill them. No pesticide has been developed. So far, the only thing that kills them are the automobile and the doors to your house, which is particularly nasty because they get smashed into the door. So while your beloved is outside cleaning the car, you’re scraping lovebug guts off the door frames.

Add to that the fact that they smell. BAD. You’re constantly squishing them when you grab a door handle. When you pick something up. When you do just about anything.

So my life, which would otherwise be splendid (well, that’s relative, you know), what with the kickoff (pun absolutely intended) of LSU football Saturday (45-3, yes, thankyouverymuch), the ever-so-slight hint of fall (I said slight — don’t take that from me, too), and the fact that I just got a pan of hot, homemade chocolate cookies out of the oven, stinks. And it will continue to stink. For about four more weeks.

Can I come stay at your house? I have cookies.

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