Why Did I Eat That Bug? A Night I’ll Never Forget

There are moments in life when a person makes decisions so bizarre that they themselves can’t explain it later.

For me, that moment came when I stared at a giant beetle crawling across my wall, fork in hand, and thought: maybe I should eat it.

It all began with simple curiosity. Bugs have always been around me, but I’d never given them much thought except for swatting them away.

Yet, that night, under the dim light of my room, the beetle’s shiny brown shell reflected back like armor. It looked like something prehistoric—an alien survivor from millions of years ago. And strangely, I wondered: what would it taste like?

At first, the thought disgusted me. Eating a bug felt like crossing a line, a thing only done on wild survival shows or by daredevils looking for shock value.

But my stomach was empty, my fridge bare, and the beetle was right there—alive, moving, and oddly tempting. Hunger and madness together can create a dangerous recipe.

I grabbed a fork, not out of logic but out of impulse, as if this beetle could be eaten like spaghetti or speared like a piece of steak. It fought back, crawling, twitching, clicking its legs against the wall, but my curiosity was louder than its defense.

The voice in my head repeated: Why not? People around the world eat insects. It’s protein. It’s natural.

So I did it.

The first bite was the hardest. My brain screamed in horror, but my teeth had already crushed through its shell. The sound was louder than I expected—like stepping on a dry leaf in the forest.

A burst of bitterness filled my mouth, mixed with something earthy, almost nutty. The texture was crunchy outside but gooey inside, and that alone nearly made me gag. But I forced myself to chew, because spitting it out would mean defeat.

With each bite, I tried to convince myself I was brave. After all, billions of people across Asia, Africa, and Latin America eat bugs regularly.

Crickets, mealworms, beetles, ants—they’re considered delicacies and superfoods, packed with protein and nutrients. Why was I acting like I’d just swallowed poison?

And yet, my stomach twisted in rebellion. I wasn’t prepared for the mental war that followed. The more I thought about what was crawling just moments before, the worse it felt inside me.

It wasn’t just food anymore—it was a choice, a moment I couldn’t take back.

The strangest part is that, as I sat there holding my fork, staring at the empty wall, I realized I wasn’t disgusted by the bug itself. I was disgusted by myself. Why had I eaten it? Was it hunger? Boredom?

Curiosity gone too far? Or was it that dark human impulse to do the very thing we fear, just to prove we can?

In the silence of my room, I started to laugh. It wasn’t funny, not really, but it was absurd. Who else would be foolish enough to spear a beetle with a fork and eat it on a random night?

I thought of explorers in jungles, of contestants on survival shows, of tribes who see insects as gifts from nature. They would probably look at me and say, What’s the big deal? It’s just food.

But to me, it was more than that. It was a reminder of how strange and unpredictable humans can be. Sometimes, we do things not because we should, but because the idea enters our mind and refuses to leave until we act on it.

So, why did I eat that bug?

Maybe it was hunger. Maybe it was madness. Maybe it was the thrill of crossing a line. Or maybe it was simply to answer the question that had haunted me in that moment: What does it taste like?

Now I know. And honestly, I hope I never have to find out again.