Bugs are uncomfortable. Bugs are the defiance of a program.
Bugs ruin people’s days and developers’ nights.
They exist outside the scope of an anthropocentric original design, and haunt the intended mechanisms of their surrounding system.
They crawl with their tiny legs into the lives of the comfortable, bringing fear, disgust, annoyance, horror, itch.
Bugs are the queers and the errors, the freaks and the wrongs, the punk and the ungovernable, the unwanted and the unknown. The purpose of a bug exists beyond the scope and comprehension of those who never stop to turn their curious gaze in unconditional appreciation of smaller existences. The convoluted cycles of the lives of arthropods bug those who only look for instrumentality to answer their why’s.
To live as a bug is to shit on decency. To live as a bug is to be gross and incomprehensible to the bourgeois mind. To live as a bug is to constantly buzz in the ears of those who sleep through the class war, it is to fly in the eyes of those who run blindly past those who need help, it’s to sting the ass of those who sit comfortably on the spoils of colonial oppression, to chew tunnels in the fruit of stolen labor and steal back what’s rightfully yours, to bite off the head of your toxic ex boyfriend, to be a vector of depravity and unruliness and make the prude flee in terror every time they see you.
And to live as a bug is to be able to reshape yourself into a majestic being of unique colour and shape, it is to form bonds of immeasurable strength with your siblings into immense hives, it is to pollinate the world around you, to jump into adventure, and fly high in the sky and crawl into every space like it’s your home. To live as a bug is to fill the air in the countryside with your love songs during summer, and to shine like a star to impress your homies when the night comes.