is having trouble with moths
An open letter to all MOTHS.
My breasts do not emit or reflect a particularly large amount of light, they do not resemble the moon in many ways, nor are they noticably similar to any night blooming flowers that I know of. Why, then, do you insist on following your bizarre spiral flight paths right into my cleavage?
Are you all perverts? Do you get some sort of pleasure from beating your ragged papery wings against my skin or nuzzling me with your horrendously fuzzy faces? Are you like those creepy little frotteurs on London Underground services ("Sorry love, bit crowded isn't it... ungh?") and crawling about to enjoy a teeny frisson of sexual pleasure as I bat you away?
I expect you've read up on Tort Law and know that any attempt to prosecute the lot of you will result in me being laughed out of a solicitor's office (possibly not The National Accident Helpline though). I would plead Intentional Infliction of Emotional Distress or just general Crimes Against The Person and you would flutter about the courtroom, bumping into things ("sorry, I'm not very good in the daytime, where's the moon? By the way I'm a moth") and they would let you go. I know my rights and yet no-one will help me!
But you know what the kicker is you immoral sneaky little bastards? That I know right from wrong. I can't kill you without days and days of GUILT.
However, if this implies that I am governed by natural moral law (thank you Thomas Aquinas) and you find yourself exempt then it's pretty conclusive which one of us was created by a higher being, eh? NOT YOU.
All this is beside the point though. GET OUT AND STAY OUT!