I can vividly see the book now, even roughly fifteen years later. The book had a hard cover that had been lovingly worn down to that soft material that painted cardboard becomes under the insistent touch of children begging for one more read. Bulging out of the thin, stained, soft-worn cover was two enormous eyes that constantly rolled around, surveying the room. Even after years of abuse, those eyes never even had a scratch (or atleast it seemed that way). My mom (as patiently as a mother of three possibly could) read those 32 pages an uncountable amount of times through all three of our childhood… Which is impressive, considering Barney and Friends was banned in my house once my brothers moved on and just before I was old enough to catch on– just to save that poor woman’s sanity. But, there was something irresistible about the book. The bug puns, clever word play, and the way it seemed so unique to us. I could never imagine another family reading this, dying laughing at the punchline… Other books I knew were readily available to every kid, but this was one of the few things I felt I had the advantage for.. This book was mine. So, naturally, every  character was played out in very specific voices and specific lines were left the space of silence needed to react to what we (I) knew was coming each time. Regardless, I read that book for years; then again when I re-found it at a time where I needed comfort. The absolute ridiculous characters within the book were so spot on to me as a child. I remember saying my grandmother looked like one of the characters (a particularly gaudy bug), who coincidentally did not think it was as enlightened as I felt– nor as funny as my parents seemed to find it. So this book taught me not only the art of a true mystery and word play, but it also started my lifelong journey to figure out exactly how tact works.