Why Infest my Nest?

Filth, it's reviled by most people but for me is all I know. I am simply a filthy creature in a filthy room, and I don't see myself leaving anytime soon. Those who visit me, though few and far between, never mention the filth that makes up the space they stand in. Perhaps they're just trying to be nice, or they simply think I'm a lost cause. Not that it would mean much to me, I've already embraced the filthiness and made it my home. The junk cluttering the floor, the stench permeating through the walls, the marks and stains painting the canvas of my soul, it's what brings me comfort. Am I content with my life? Maybe, but I can only ever see myself as filth, no more than the worthless trash that furbish my living space. I dread having to leave this filth, anywhere else would feel like being held at gunpoint. But that's what this world asks from me, threatening my filthiness so that I may offer my worth to the public. But that's ridiculous, if I went out to work and do humanly things wouldn't I just bring in more filth? Then again, I rarely ever get to see new faces while I'm this cubicle of garbage, so to an extent I am dissatisfied with my pathetically lonely life.

But one day, from the corner of my eye, I spot a peculiar little cockroach scurrying across the floor. It's a bit of a surprise, one that would send most people into a panic, but I can't help feel a sense of joy at seeing a visitor take interest in my hole. After aimlessly crawling around the ground, the roach began to climb the tower of newspapers I keep near my nightstand. Does it want to eat the papers? Because I wouldn't mind if it did so. There was a time when the outside world fascinated me, and these pages acted as glimpses into a great story I was missing out on. Eventually this interest began to wane when it was clear I would never leave my apartment. Why would I bother to read these if I'd never get to experience the writing within the articles? But with these papers stacked in my room, it's as if the outside world has manifested its own space here, becoming just like the rest of the filth in my disgusting hole.

After a bit, the little guy crawled across my nightstand to give my bed a visit. "Huh, I guess this makes you a bed bug now?" I don't think the cockroach cares much for my quip, but now I wonder if I'm the bed bug. Here I am in a rather filthy bed, and my only form of human connection is with this disgusting insect. Of course I spend most of the day here because it brings me comfort, and at night it's where I dream. Though lately I haven't bothered to dream much of anything. For a large part of my life people told me what are the right dreams to have, but after so much exhaustion I can only ever dream about filth.

While I'm caught in this reflection, the roach seemingly approaches me as though it wants to offer comfort. I take a second to appreciate the gesture, before the creature skitters away, across the floor, and under my door. Where will it go now? I take an exhilarating walk through the hall and started darting my eyes across the rest of my apartment.

 

That's when I spot the roach on the kitchen counter, perhaps helping itself to the scraps adorning the surface. I've always cooked for myself, it's a skill that one should be proud of but has been a source of misery for myself. Every dish I've prepared has turned out disastrous, and over the years I've put in less and less effort to the point that I question why I even bother. It's hard to see how I'm capable of anything when everything I make is filth. And this filth has been accumulating over time, encompassing every square inch of the kitchen. Masses of expired meat and produce, emptied cans littering the area like a garbage disposal, it might be the most repulsive part of my apartment. 

As the roach scurries across the countertop, I unfortunately notice all the recipes I've failed to create. These childhood meals brought warmth on even the most dismal days, and were made by people that actually cared about me, whether or not I was filthy. Of course these meals remain out of reach, as every attempt to capture that nostalgia collapses in my grasp. Those memories, old friends and family, they're the only thing that I can look back on fondly. But now they're as distant as the ocean that separates the land, and I'm stranded on an island of trash. God it's too crushing to think about, I gotta grab a drink.

But just when I turn to reach over the table, the roach already beat me to the bottles. It can't be taking that drink for itself, I know it's better than that. I see those eyes, I can tell they care. It's remarkable how many meaningful interactions I've gotten from this cockroach throughout its meandering trek. It got me to reassess my life in a way wouldn't do otherwise. If there are people as smart and caring as this cockroach, then maybe now is the time I take a step outside.

 

Written by: Zucchini, 2026

Inspiration and screenshots from: Bad Mojo, 1996