fucking jiminy fucking cricket

This morning on my drive to work, I noticed a small cricket on the dash of my car. I asked him if he would like to be my conscience; he could live on my shoulder and we would name him Jiminy like in Pinocchio. We would be the best of friends, my conscience and me.

Well, apparently the thought of being my conscience made poor Jiminy suicidal. He lunged himself, kamikaze style, straight for my head. After ramming his little body at my forehead a few times he moved on to other targets: the windshield, my hair, the wheel, my hair, the window, my hair…you get the point. Yeah, try to keep your car on the road and catch a suicidal cricket at the same time. After a while Jiminy decided he was going about this whole thing all wrong and fell to the ground, where he jumped onto my shoe and proceeded to climb up my leg. God only know what he had planned, but it was the last fucking straw. After getting the car off the shoulder road, I reached down, thumped him off my leg and squashed him like the bug he was. Jiminy is no more.

Ah well, fuck’em. I don’t need a conscience anyway. Right?