Little Girls 1, Roaches 1
So another roach got into my room, this one while I was trying to write that column that gave me so much trouble. A stubby, bulbous little black bastard--he looked like the pit bull version of a roach. I saw him scurry under my sandal, but he absconded before I could Raid his ass. It was about 5.30 in the morning at this point, and I just couldn't make myself sit down and finish that column with my back to the room, leaving me vulnerable to a roach-on-the-shoulder induced, limp-wrists-flailing heart attack. So I slept on the couch. And I wonder why I can't get a date.
After skipping work and waking up around noon, I caught the column saboteur in the middle of my floor, his mocking attenae twitching. I tried to hose him down, but he bolted--under the sandals again, then up and into a paper bag on my floor, then, Jesus no!, toward my bed and the pillows on the floor. After a pause he reappeared on the wall, near my computer, so I hesitated to spray him. Sputtering from the poison, he flopped down in between my computer's tower and my desk. I went and got Kevin to remove the carcass. Kevin came and searched, only to find that the little devil's electric-cable tomb was empty. Damnit. I figured he was dead, but the hairs on my toes were on full alert all night. More than once I let out a yelp and banged my knees on my desk trying to lift my feet off the ground and away from the roach's ghost.
I didn't see him again that night, so I went to bed somewhat peacefully, trying to put aside visions of him crawling into my drooling mouth while I slept.
The next day, still no roach in sight, I came home from work and changed clothes. I was looking for my clipboard so I could edit my column when I moved the comforter on my bed. Laying on his back, his arms splayed, he had been resurrected, spent his night in hell, and had now risen. His mission accomplished, his friend's death atoned, his corpse sneered at me, seeming to say, "I regret I have but one life to give to creeping Matty the fuck out."
Danny performed the exhumation at my behest.
---
I don't know why roaches, only roaches, make me want crawl out of my skin. Doodlebugs, for instance, don't bother me a bit, and they imbibe poo like I eat chicken fried steak.
So another roach got into my room, this one while I was trying to write that column that gave me so much trouble. A stubby, bulbous little black bastard--he looked like the pit bull version of a roach. I saw him scurry under my sandal, but he absconded before I could Raid his ass. It was about 5.30 in the morning at this point, and I just couldn't make myself sit down and finish that column with my back to the room, leaving me vulnerable to a roach-on-the-shoulder induced, limp-wrists-flailing heart attack. So I slept on the couch. And I wonder why I can't get a date.
After skipping work and waking up around noon, I caught the column saboteur in the middle of my floor, his mocking attenae twitching. I tried to hose him down, but he bolted--under the sandals again, then up and into a paper bag on my floor, then, Jesus no!, toward my bed and the pillows on the floor. After a pause he reappeared on the wall, near my computer, so I hesitated to spray him. Sputtering from the poison, he flopped down in between my computer's tower and my desk. I went and got Kevin to remove the carcass. Kevin came and searched, only to find that the little devil's electric-cable tomb was empty. Damnit. I figured he was dead, but the hairs on my toes were on full alert all night. More than once I let out a yelp and banged my knees on my desk trying to lift my feet off the ground and away from the roach's ghost.
I didn't see him again that night, so I went to bed somewhat peacefully, trying to put aside visions of him crawling into my drooling mouth while I slept.
The next day, still no roach in sight, I came home from work and changed clothes. I was looking for my clipboard so I could edit my column when I moved the comforter on my bed. Laying on his back, his arms splayed, he had been resurrected, spent his night in hell, and had now risen. His mission accomplished, his friend's death atoned, his corpse sneered at me, seeming to say, "I regret I have but one life to give to creeping Matty the fuck out."
Danny performed the exhumation at my behest.
---
I don't know why roaches, only roaches, make me want crawl out of my skin. Doodlebugs, for instance, don't bother me a bit, and they imbibe poo like I eat chicken fried steak.
posted by Matt at 2:25 PM
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