So there I was, sitting at the computer, happily perusing Manuel's blog in the wee hours of the morning, chuckling away. "Ha ha," I think, along with "Valid point!" and "Thank God I don't work in the restaurant industry anymore!" when the next thing I know, I feel a funny tickling in the arch of my right foot, which is ensconced in its slipper. "That's strange," I think to myself, "that almost feels like.... a bug!" Now some of you may remember that I have a serious bug phobia, the kind of phobia where, given a choice between touching a picture of a bug or cutting off my right hand, I will cut off my whole right arm.
Once it dawned on me that there quite possibly was a large bug in my slipper, actually touching my foot, my whole body was convulsed with a horrible sense of dread. I leapt up from the chair, shrieking "AAAIIIIEEEE!!! AAAIIIIEEEE!!! AAAIIIIEEEE!!!" followed quickly by "FUCK ME!" Strangely enough, this did not wake the sleeping household, which meant that nobody was coming to my defense. Shit.
Off to the kitchen I went, to fetch my large can of Raid-brand wasp spray. Raid-brand wasp spray is the shit, let me tell you. It will kill anything, and you can fire it up with accuracy from 20 feet away. It will keep mice, ants, and what-have-you out of your pantries, if you coat the cracks and corners with just a small amount, and it can take out, in mid-air, the mutant Japanese beetles (which I live in fear of) that fly through our back yard. Oh yeah, it kills wasps, too.
So, armed with my weapon of mass destruction, I warily go back into the living room, to hunt out whatever bug has infested my slipper. I tentatively reach under the desk, where my slipper is lying, and with shuddering hand give that fucker a good shake. Nothing. Crap. This means a further search will be required. I move back the chair, and there it is; a cricket of monstrous proportions. It is a giant, hairy black cricket, with drumsticks on it big enough to satiate a family of 5 in Darfur. It does not move; I assume that either it has been slightly crushed by me standing on it, or the smell of my foot has stunned it. Either way, I go in for the kill while it is quiet. I back away slowly, and say my prayers. SQUIRT! goes the wasp spray, all 7 gallons of it. SPROING! goes the cricket, followed by more truncated, high-pitched screaming by yours truly. I rapidly discharge another round from my weapon, easily hitting my target, as I am a practiced sharpshooter. The cricket scrabbles madly in the carpet, and works his way to some cardboard boxes that have been stuffed under the computer desk.
Fuck's sake, I'll never feel safe now, with the twitching body of a dying cricket under there. Wasp spray may be deadly, and it usually only takes one hit, but it can take a while to secure the demise of the larger insects. Muttering and still shaking, I go off to do the dishes. I return later with a fly swatter to scoop up the dead cricket. No way am I touching that fucker with anything held in my hands, such as a tissue. Yuck. I attempt to scoop up the dead cricket, only to have it break into a million pieces. Did I mention that wasp spray is kinda caustic? Oh well, I'll leave it for the Spouse Sparrow.
Later on that night, I had a spider crawl up my face.
Even later on, I had to give the wasp spray treatment to a large water bug that ran across the floor.
I think it is possible that the Apocalypse is coming. Or I may just need to clean the house. Then again, maybe I can just start drinking. Yeah, I think I'll just start drinking. Valium cocktails, anyone?