When I was in seventh grade, I was outside in my front yard when I saw a cricket jumping down the street. In order to entertain myself, I decided to follow that little cricket to see where it was going. I followed it for a while, but sometimes it would just stop moving forward, and that bored me.
So, I discovered that if I stood over the cricket, it would keep jumping. All of sudden, I realized the cricket must have jumped away when I wasn't looking. I couldn't find it anywhere. I lost interest and decided to go back inside and watch TV.
Hours later, I had forgotten all about the cricket and its journey down the street when I started to have an itch on my lower back area. Assuming it was just the tag from my shorts rubbing on my back, I reach back to fix it. My hand felt a slightly warm, quivering little bump latched onto the inside of my underwear.
I stood straight up and started screaming. I didn't want to touch it, but I could feel it scraping against my skin. I screamed long enough that my older sister tried to help. She reached down in my pants and my underwear and pulled it off of me.
I don't know what happened to the cricket after that, but there's one thing I know for sure. The cricket got its revenge. I haven't looked at a cricket in the same way since, and yet, they always seem to find me.
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