A ladybug infestation and an identity mix-up

Contrary to what the title may suggest, the identity mix-up is not with the ladybugs, though the variation they show is pretty damn fascinating. Being home for uni has proved to be hell on earth, an exaggeration only slight since I’m sure there are swarms of ladybugs in hell. 

    Typing this out, I have realised this is possibly factually incorrect (or as close to factually as I can get on this blog, I don’t claim to be Wikipedia), since the Russian translation of ladybug is божья коровка, directly translating to “God’s little cow”. However, right now I don’t feel kindly towards these little creatures, so I am more inclined to call them the devil’s little shits. 

    Doing a few minutes of actual research, I have discovered that invasions of Harlequin ladybugs are very common over here in the UK. They tend to crowd around windowsills for an escape from the cold winter weather, and can squeeze through cracks on loosely fitting windows. They’ve come from the East, like Russia and China - thanks Russia, for sending your “little cows” over here. At this point, I’d much prefer an infestation of actual cows. 

God's little cows.

    My favourite hypothetical question to ask my sister is what she would do if a hundred horses were sent to her home right now. It’s supposed to be a would you rather, but I couldn’t think of an alternative that would be better/worse than that. I also just enjoy the image of one hundred horses turning up in your back garden and house. What would you do? Sell them? Call the police? The fuck are the feds gonna do about a horse infestation? They would barely know what to do about my Little Cow infestation. 

    Anyway, I also discovered that apparently, ladybirds carry STIs now, one that manifests as a fungus on their shell. Max Barclay, when asked whether humans can get this STI, stated: “That’s ridiculous. It is a fungus that grows on the exoskeleton and we don’t have one of those, and we don’t have sex with ladybugs.” Speak for yourself, Max. 

    Other than ladybirds with STIs invading my home, I have also fallen victim to an identity mix-up, in which I have been attempting to cancel my gym membership for months now. New year does not mean a new me, apparently, and I would much prefer to swim or to go climbing than to lift weights. Unfortunately for me, the gym I go to decided to very sneakily continue to take money from me, month after month. Three, to be exact. No wonder I had no bloody money at uni, I was being drained of thirty quid every month! So, I emailed them about it. Very polite, I thought. Even called them up on the phone at one point, so you know the situation is dire. 

    They were very polite. Ah yes, Sasha, we’ll get it sorted for you as quickly as possible! We’ll refund the money right now! It’ll be here in seven days, babes.

 
    Seven days go by. No money to be seen. I email again, after waiting a generous ten days. 

    “We can confirm the money has been sent to the account it was taken from, Rochelle [My Very Common Last Name].” 

    Girl, who the fuck is Rochelle? Why is she taking my money? Yeah, yeah, I get it, this stuff happens. I’ll get it sorted. Maybe Rochelle is one of my Harlequin ladybugs, quite comfortably lavishing in the money she STOLE from me. I hope you’re happy, God’s cow. See you in hell.