I HAVE A CRICKET

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It's not what I wanted. What I wanted was an iPhone. What I want is not factored into the cosmic calculations that bring me things like crickets. The cricket torments me. Imagine having a roommate who talks constantly but just says one word. The cricket hasn't said how long he's visiting for. Whether he's settling in or passing through. Hasn't said whether he's a he, for that matter. Do crickets come in hes and shes? That's what I wonder lying awake at 3 am, listening to my cricket. But I'm not going to look it up. I don't want to know any more about crickets than I do now. This one is like a grain of sand that made its way inside my shell. There's always the possibility that I will be goaded to excrete a viscous substance that will surround the cricket and shut it up and that it will coalesce into a pearl. But I acknowledge that this possibility is very very remote.

The cricket's output is very consistent, but sometimes it becomes a shriek.