Schedule of Josie, The Gay Cicada Living in Your Backyard
By Sophia Stio
8:00 am: I wake up and yell to the tune of “Motion Sickness” by Phoebe Bridgers. Every morning is a performance.
8:30 am: Upon hearing my screams, the humans shout disparaging comments at me. I am not the bad guy! If you want to see a real infestation, check the grip that Moms 4 Qanon has on Facebook groups. Also, do these guys realize how homophobic it is to yell at me? During pride month, no less. 11 in 100 cicadas are gay, so every time you get mad at me, that’s targeted harassment.
9:00 am: After I squeal my brains out, I choose the most inconvenient spot possible to rest my luscious cicada booty. Today, I chose to latch on to the windowsill of a woman with seasonal depression. She needs that sunlight, and I will do everything in my power to distract her from those medicinal rays.
11:30 am: Seasonal depression lady stares blankly into my beady orange eyes. She decides to Facetime her boyfriend who, according to her journal that she left on the window, is horrendous in the bedroom. A woman sexually unfulfilled by her straight, cis-gender, male partner? Surely, this has never happened before! As she begs the man over the phone to not finger her so lazily next time, I poop a little on the windowsill. Please don’t judge. I have been holding in this shit for 17 goddamn years.
2:00 pm: After seasonal depression lady nearly bores me to death with her straight jargon, I change locales for the day. As I fly around, I think about how much the world has changed in 17 years. In 2004, everyone was watching Napoleon Dynamite and making out to Usher. Now, 17 years later, I learn that Michael Jackson is dead and big tits are no longer in. What a shift!
2:45 pm: Lured in by the sweet sounds of Dua Lipa, I find myself on a pride float surrounded by drag queens and a Citi Bank logo. Is this what seasonal depression lady meant by “Rainbow Washing?” Like, I’m having fun on this float, but also, why are these formerly homophobic businesses trying to convince me that my identity is valid for the sake of brand awareness?
3:00 pm: My social awareness fuels my decision to interrupt a group of lgbtq+ Marxists. They are gathered in a studio apartment doing poppers and drinking some weird spiked kombucha. I poop again, because I’m a fucking cicada, and they hate that. They hate that a lot. They actually hate it so much that they try to murder me with a rolled-up copy of I-D Magazine. I frantically try to dodge the cover photo of Timothy Chalamet in a genderless sweater.
5:00 pm: After successfully evading my death, I clasp on to a table at Sweetgreen. Why is everyone here so horny for salad? Confused and disturbed, I leave the premises.
5:15 pm: Now I’m sitting on a park bench. I scream to the point of tears. Hearing my call, a group of soccer moms run to my aid. They stare at me and ask, “what is that?” I poop — shocker. At the sight of my defecation, they shuffle away. I am not an exhibit, Brenda. I am a cicada with interests and a story to tell. I am more than my fecal matter.
7:00 pm: I see the most beautiful woman ever. I scream at her. She screams at me. We get out of that damn park. We fly over to an alley behind a P.F. Changs and we get it on. Happy Pride to me.
8:00 pm: After doing the opposite of seasonal depression lady’s boyfriend, I exchange cicada numbers with the blonde cicada from the park. I give her a fake number. She gives me a peck on the cheek. This was a one-time ordeal, but she doesn’t know that yet.
9:00 pm: I play dead. I mess around with some tweens. They try to pick me up, thinking that I am a shell, and then I wiggle in their palms. They run away crying. I do a celebratory yell and high-five the other cicadas in my vicinity. Huge for the community.
12:00 am: My night ends with me pooping on one more windowsill. This time, I have a view of a straight couple having sex to the sound of Lin Manuel-Miranda’s “Love is Love” speech. Never have I witnessed such misguided allyship.
12:02 am: I crawl around the windowsill at snail pace thinking about the day that I’ve had and the people that I have witnessed. Boy, am I excited to return to the dirty depths of hell. Until “Dancing On My Own” is back on the Billboard Hot 100 chart, I will not be returning to the earth’s surface for at least 17 years.
After yelling and fucking one last time, Josie died on that windowsill. An open casket service will be held at St. Cicada of the Assumption Church at 8 am. Screaming is required. Her shell will be used as a prop in a Grimes music video.
In lieu of flowers, Josie’s family asks that you instead dedicate your time and funds to making pride about you.
Sophia Stio is a comedy writer and performer based in Boston, MA. She also has a comedy podcast called Cabaret de Cancel where she is able to be stupid without the worry of being visually perceived. Soph loves Christine Baranski and dogs that wear tiny clothes. She’ll cry if you follow her on Twitter: @sophtweetsabout
