So, yesterday I spent more time than I should have mourning the loss of my bathroom companion: the tiny moth that lived in the stalls. I was sad that he had passed, but had hope because I noticed another chilling out on the wall.

Well, as I went in this morning, I realized “he” was indeed a “she” and had laid several eggs or whatever moths do. The bathroom was inundated with tiny mothlings all flying about. It was a bit overwhelming, and reminded me a bit too much of Charlotte’s Web. Had the moth written something about pigs on the mirror, we would totally have made millions.

While the momentary exuberance of realizing that the circle of life move us all and all that jazz was moving, I realized that we were in trouble. The moth had totally overdone it one the egg laying. What would have been a perfectly acceptable amount of babies to make in a barn or closet full of itchy, but yummy wool clothes, in a supposedly sterile hospital bathroom, the partridge family of tiny moths surely would not go unnoticed.

As I was doing my business I counted at least six. I realized that the cleaning lady would be in to give the bathroom its daily scrub down at around 10:00 and would most likely to her best to extricate the infestation. After all, bypassing a family of moths that large would probably make its way onto one of those “how can we do better?” comment cards and inevitably end up on her annual job evaluation.

Beyond the obvious fear of the inevitable squishings to come, I became worried that the new babies wouldn’t have anything to eat. I considered bringing in bits of lint from a particularly itchy sweater I have for them to nosh, but wasn’t sure if that’s what they actually eat or if that were a misnomer.

“Great,” one would mutter to another after I left, “the one person who kind of gets the fact that we’re stuck in here brings us the most inedible garbage of all.”

“She’s the worst one of all. Instead of killing us quickly, she wants us to starve to death!” Another would gripe.

“Is this lint a joke? Is she mocking us?” Then they would begin plotting my demise, working out their attack strategy for the next time I come back to pee. That’s all I need, to have the moths hate me too!

I came back a while later, and it seemed as though either some had been smushed or had miraculously escaped. Either way, there were only about three left. It was enough, I thought, to continue going unnoticed and proliferate the species (albeit incestuously so at this point). And, with the naysayers gone, the remainder of the moths seemed a bit more tolerant of me. Perhaps I had caused such a rift in the group that some opted to leave or die rather than live under the regime that sympathized with the giant human.