Yet another day of fighting the good fight, trying to change our image in the eyes of these humans.
Yet another failure.
Diary, what path is left open to me? What door has not been slammed in my face? If only you had ears, that you could hear the horrible things they say about my kind. Have you been called a plague? An epidemic? A punishment for all man's crimes? Then what could you possibly know of my pain?
I'm sorry Diary. I should not have lashed out like that. You can see how deeply this discrimination is affecting me. If I could raise my bedbug voice, I would tell these humans how much we love them. Why else would we fill their movie theaters to the brim? I cannot do justice to the pleasure I derive from watching my hundreds of thousands of offspring take in their first Pixar film while nursing from the elbow of a human child. The look of joy in their multifaceted eyes is a precious thing. The folks at Pixar really know how to tug our bug-heartstrings.
I wish you could know the bittersweet pride I feel when I watch those same offspring hitch home on their children, knowing they will go on to fill that human's house with bedbug joy. And hundreds of thousands of their own glistening, translucent progeny.
It is love alone that drives us into the racks of Abercrombie & Fitch and Victoria's Secret. We adore the fashion sense of the humans. If only we could wear those jeans with the same flair. Alas, they are terribly unflattering to our six stubby legs and wide, blood-filled abdomens. And thongs? Forget about it. Not with these proportions.
Diary, have you ever loved something only to have it look upon you with abject horror and fury? Have you stood watch over that thing in the night, protecting it from whatever evil lurks in the dark, only to hear the screams of your beloved upon waking and finding that you've been feeding periodically on their life's blood? It's no picnic to discover that your beloved thinks YOU are the evil lurking in the dark. If it is a crime to love something so much, you want to put a part of them inside you, then Your Honor, I am guilty of it in the first degree.
What is a bedbug to do, when the object of our love finds the very means of our procreation hideous? Would that I had a switch, with which I could flip off my lusts like my human's bedside lamp. Diary, they would take every form of pleasure from me had they the means. What can I say? When I see a bed-damsel, segmented abdomen bloated with the blood of our human, I simply have no choice but to stab her in that abdomen with my hypodermic genitalia and ejaculate into her body cavity. Do you know what makes the prejudice of the humans even worse? I'm thinking of them the whole time I do this.
They would take this joy from me, Diary, but they shan't. For I am going "underground," as they say. The humans hate us? They think us monsters? Then monsters we shall be, hiding in the dark crevices of the human home. Fortunately for us, we can fit into a gap the thickness of a credit card, lurking undetected. There are thousands of such gaps in my human's bedroom alone.
If you need me, Diary, that is where I shall be. Waiting. Watching. Feeding.