As far disconnected as humanity is from the rat race we call the food chain, there’s still some primordial part of us left behind, a holdover from the days when we had to constantly check over our shoulder for lurking predators. It’s that uncomfortable feeling you get when you think you’re being watched, that shudder that goes up your spine at the thought of something lurking in the shadows, seeing you only as its next meal.

Perhaps it’s the same instinct that causes your heart to sink in your chest whenever I’m around. When my belly, never sated, growls hungry as I lean up against your side, and my maw rolls open as I innocently yawn, my deep, dark, tight throat looming open as if beckoning you into its sweltering confines. It’s the unease of being around a predator; of knowing you’re not being seen as a person, but as a potential meal. That, just like your ancestors, you’ve stepped a few rungs down the great food chain. And the equal thrill and horror of the idea I could snatch you up at any moment, steal you away from the sunlight, and imprison you in a dark, sauna-like, bubbling gastric little chamber for the rest of your life. Every moment around me is a gamble, always betting on the possibility I won’t feel hungry enough to gobble you up on a whim. Are you feeling lucky? Then go ahead and snuggle up. I don’t bite…