👉 Okay, let’s tackle that wonderfully prickly little beast of a word! Defining "insect-avitated," frankly, is like trying to herd a gaggle of particularly frantic butterflies whilst simultaneously balancing on a very small, rapidly destabilising meringue.
Essentially – and I'm spitballing here, as the precise entomological definition remains delightfully elusive – being insect-avitated , emphatically, means inextricably, fundamentally… accompanied by the unsettling awareness that you are now a part of a larger, chitinous, and frankly rather indifferent ecosystem entirely populated by insects. It’s not just that there're bugs around—it's as if they see you, they know you've arrived, and they... are auditing your experience. Now, let me unpack the ridiculousness: We usually think of our immediate surroundings. But to be “insect-avitated" is to realise we are a footnote in their very complicated, six-legged drama—and it probably doesn't involve a rave. It’s that low-level prickle that says, "You belong here now, and frankly, you look a little… fleshy. (Disclaimer: I haven't actually done extensive anthropological fieldwork on this phenomenon. My entire existence is predicated on the somewhat alarming extrapolation of my admittedly limited knowledge about both insects and human awkwardness.) --- Here’s that edgy, unsettling sentence (brace yourselves): The beige wallpaper in the motel room began
