How Indonesian Bugs Taught Me About Nostalgia

There is a specific tier of REM sleep reserved exclusively for psychological ambush. It's the kind of dream that abruptly ejects you back into reality, leaving you staring at your ceiling, panting, and desperately trying to figure out what year it is.

Last night, my subconscious packed my bags and flew me on a fully funded, first-class trip back to Surabaya, Indonesia.

In this nocturnal universe, I was living like absolute royalty. I had a gorgeous master bedroom in Kupang Indah, complete with my own private ensuite bathroom. No work. No deadlines. Zero adult responsibilities. My calendar was a pristine wasteland, waiting to be filled with nothing but café hangouts and endless banter.

Ah, the dream, I thought to myself. I'm a creature of leisure.

Naturally, I decided to sashay over to inspect my magnificent bathroom.

That was the exact millisecond my dream transformed from a luxury travel vlog into a low-budget, creature-feature horror movie.

There, glowing ominously on the cool tile floor, was a flash of neon green.

A ulat bulu. A hairy caterpillar. Picture a toxic, fluffy land-mine capable of delivering pure, unadulterated skin agony.

Panic hit me like a splash from ALS ice bucket challenge. But before I could even pivot to flee, I looked closer.

Emerging from the darkness were dozens of razor-thin, squiggly worms. They weren't just wandering; they were marching in full tactical infantry formation straight toward my bed.

I froze. I didn't even dare take a peek into the bathroom proper. For all I knew, the final boss — a 6-foot mutant centipede in a top hat — was waiting around the corner.

My internal detective took over: The windows are sealed tight. Where is this biological assault coming from?!

I cast my eyes downward. The floor. Microscopic micro-cracks in the grout between the tiles. They were coming from the subterranean abyss beneath the house.

Now, facing a subterranean bug invasion, a rational human would scream, burn the house down, or wake up immediately.

My brain, however, opted for consumer-driven tactical warfare.

"I've got it!" dream-me declared with unearned swagger. "I'll just pop over to Ace Hardware in Pakuwon Supermall tonight!"

Because obviously, the ultimate counter-attack against a supernatural infestation is retail therapy. My mind locked onto those legendary glue-trap bug magnets I used to buy at Canadian Tire — the ones that release a seductive pheromone scent, tricking pests into marching directly to their sticky, inescapable doom. (I've field-tested them in real life; they are terrifyingly effective).

"I'll buy the sticky traps," I reasoned, fully composed. "And hey, while I'm at Pakuwon Supermall, I'll text Anthony and set up a dinner hangout!"

Just like that, the impending doom evaporated back into unearned bliss. Man, life in Indonesia would be incredible. No job, tackling monster bugs with imported Canadian hardware store logic, and getting drinks with old friends.

And right there — at the absolute peak of my dreamy, nostalgic delusion — my brain's internal security system fired off one final, lethal query:

Wait… do you REALLY want to live that life?

BAM.

I woke up with a violent jolt.