Some people might freak out if they woke up one morning transformed into a big, freaky bug with an armor-like back and a segmented body with lots of weird legs, but not me. No, I wouldn’t hide out in my room moping; I’d look at a metamorphosis as an opportunity.

The first thing I’d do is call my cousin Teddy and bet him five hundred dollars that I can scurry across the ceiling of my apartment upside down and unaided. If he balked, I’d raise the bet to six hundred, cash. There’s no way he’d be able to resist that. I’d tell him to come right over, and when he knocked at my door I’d shout to come in, and when he does I’ll drop down from my hiding place on the ceiling and kick him in the stomach with my powerful new bug legs. Then I’ll go through his wallet and take all his money.

Before you judge me, consider this: my cousin Teddy is a total dick who once demanded that I give him five hundred dollars for destroying his air hockey table, even though he’s the one who cheated every time we played. This would just be balancing the scales.

I’d have some fun with the fact that no one would recognize me in my new bug form. Like, maybe I’d go over to my brother’s house and tell him I’m a big nasty demon sent from hell to punish him unless he admits he stole that Rolling Stone with Jennifer Aniston on the cover from under my bed in 1996. If he finally comes clean I’ll tell him he can save his soul by giving me his Nintendo Switch. If he denies stealing the magazine when faced with the threat of eternal damnation, I’ll believe him. But I might take his Nintendo Switch anyway, so that the afternoon won’t have been a total waste of time.

I can’t help but wonder how my ex-girlfriend Mary would react to hearing I’d morphed into a big freaky bug. She’s hard to figure out. We promised to keep in touch, but last week I texted her a picture of a Boston terrier I saw in the park that looked kind of like her dad and she didn’t even respond. Well, I bet she reaches out once I’m a big celebrity, because if owning a weird dog or a thick butt is enough to make someone Instagram famous, living full time as an insect should be a slam dunk.

I’d announce myself to the world with a selfie in front of my closet and the caption, “Which shirt goes with this carapace? #SamsaLife.” #SamsaLife would be my personal brand. Some people might not get the reference, but the people who do get it will be like, “A big freaky bug, but also well-read? This guy is the total package!”

I thought about using #BuggingOut, but I’ll save that for the first time I post a picture of myself with a celebrity. That way it’ll seem like, even though I’m hanging out with John Mayer on his tour bus, I’m still humble.

Thinking about it, if Mary turned into a bug and I had to find out through social media, I’d be really hurt. I’d let her know before posting anything public. Maybe send her a selfie and write, “So this happened!” She’ll write back wondering what I’m talking about, and I’ll wait a full twenty-four hours before responding, “Sorry, just saw this. I’m a big bug now! Pretty weird! Walking into Pitch Perfect 3, talk later?”

Playing the metamorphosis like it’s not even that big a deal with make my life sound really interesting and mysterious. Maybe then she’ll take another look at this Air Force pilot she’s dating and wonder if he’s really so exciting after all. And making it sound like I’m only just seeing Pitch Perfect 3 for the first time right then will throw her off in case she suspects that it was me who booed when the Air Force pilot put his arm around her in the theater that night.

Maybe I should leave Mary alone. We had fun, but it’s time to move on. I’ll probably be too busy with the #SamsaLife stuff to worry about her anyway. I bet I’ll get invited on all the different talk shows. What if Bill Maher invites me on to give a big freaky bug’s perspective on world events? I’ll have to study up on world events. Or actually, no, I’ll request to appear on an episode with Ann Coulter, and then stay real quiet while she and Bill go back and forth and when Bill finally asks me what I think about whatever they’ve been debating I’ll look at Ann Coulter and say, “Wow, and they call me vermin!”

I bet people go wild for that. I might even get offered a book deal. I could dedicate the book to Mary! Or maybe that’s not a great idea. I wouldn’t want to do anything to give her the impression that my metamorphosis was in any way, not even a little bit, her fault. Is the timing strange, that this happened right after she dumped me? Sure. Have I been thinking a lot lately about how the six months we spent together was the happiest time in my life, and that I’ll probably never be so happy ever again? Of course I have. Do I feel hopelessly lost and perhaps even in some ways subhuman without her? Undeniably. But that doesn’t mean she should blame herself. Not everything is about you, Mary.

It probably sounds like I’m being really selfish, only thinking about how transforming into a big, freaky bug will benefit me. But I want #SamsaLife to be about more than just my experience. I think there’s potential for the brand to become a beacon for people who have a hard time forming lasting connections and yearn to be accepted as they are. Well, hold on, that makes it sound like I’m talking about Redditors or gamers or something. Not them. I’m thinking more along the lines of people who are disenfranchised or alienated from society, but like… you know how Rosario Dawson always talks about how she’s so nerdy because she loves Star Trek? That’s more the vibe I’m interested in. Or you know what? I won’t discriminate. I’ll take the Redditors and gamers, too. If the brand resonates with them, and they’re willing to spend thirty dollars on an official #SamsaLife t-shirt, then who am I to judge?

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