Monkeys and Me.

I think monkeys are vile. And hilarious. And I’m terrified of them. Not only was I recently mugged by a gang of them, but a few years ago in India I was nearly sexually assaulted and killed by one.

I was sitting on the porch of my hotel, watching a gaggle/herd/swarm of monkeys jump around the roofs and balconies, playing and screaming and doing disgusting monkey things, when all of a sudden this HUGE monkey, clearly The Grand Poobah Monkey, jumps up on the roof, pounds his fists on his chest and roars, scattering the entire monkey population in one, squeaky blur.

Then he looks at me.

Stares me down.

And leaps!

I remember in that moment thinking wow, this is it. This is how it’s going to go down. I’m going to die on a balcony in Pushkar, home of the camel festival and mustache competitions, covered in monkey bites and my own pee.

But alas – he landed right at my feet and then bounced over my head, combing my hair with his toes and practically teabaggin me in the process.

Because I’m a big believer in facing your fears, I forced myself to pay the two bucks and take a stroll through The Sacred Monkey Forest in Ubud the other day, even though the sign at the entrance warned that they sometimes jump from the trees and land on your head.

I mean, come ON!

So gross.