Phasmatodea

I went for a walk today and came across a stick trembling upon the ground. I immediately questioned my sanity, until I lifted up the epileptic bug who had undoubtedly lost his home.

I carried him around to various trees, shrubbery, and miscellaneous plant life growing in the yard. To no avail, the little creature vehemently denied each of his potential new homes, instead choosing the safety of my finger.

After two excruciatingly long hours of being trapped in my mother's sterile Tupperware container along with a few leaves and a water-soaked towelette, my friend and I decided to recommence our endeavor.

Nearing the brink of exacerbation, I decided to try various alternatives to my new friend's ecologically-favored natural habitat: flowers, automobiles, rotting lumber, and even a plastic mailbox. Finally, and unexpectedly, the little fellow let go of my finger and cheerfully migrated to an empty cigarette pack sitting on the back porch swing.

I tried to withdraw his legs, but he had an astonishingly strong grip, and I was afraid to rip the limbs from his body. So, I let him be.

While logically an empty cigarette pack is not exactly the most viable option for the long-term living arrangements of twig-dwelling insects, I have realized that attempting to usurp my friend's decision could possibly be more damaging than simply letting him realize this on his own.

And so is life.