A couple of weeks ago, I was at a voodoo shop in New Orleans. As I browsed through the bookshelf, I heard the owner shriek. She spied a giant cockroach parked in the middle of our circle of people.
"Kill it!" the owner begged me.
"Yeah, kill it, Ian!" my mom echoed.
I assumed a Captain Morgan pose before second-guessing myself. I don't like to crush bugs. Part of it is that I hate to kill anything, but also that I hate the way killing a cockroach sounds and feels. I don't like mashed roach on the floor or my shoes. Also, I used to routinely crush bugs at the height of my teenage arrogance. Oh, and I was in a voodoo shop. In that split second, with all that rushing in my brain, I muttered words that made me cringe even as I was saying them:
"Uh, it's against my principles."
With that, the owner stomped the roach into a puddle of pus. Mom and another customer groaned. So much for principle, huh?
At least the roaches love me.