If It Kills Me

by Stephanie

Oh how people would be entertained if there were cameras in my apartment capturing moments like this. It was my turn to clean the apartment, and as I was sweeping the kitchen floor a dust ball rolled under the refrigerator. Or what I thought was a dust ball. It wasn’t until that dust ball begin to shimmy its way up the wall that I realized it was a cockroach the size of my head. MY HEAD! Now if you know me, you know that I’m one tough chick in most situations, but creepy crawlers and rodents are my Achilles heel. I turned into a neurotic mess and called my mom immediately while standing guard in my bedroom to make sure the little bastard didn’t come in. Paranoia swept in while I worried that he had crawled onto the ceiling and if I approached the battle zone he would fall in my hair…..and I would die.

It took me about 20 minutes before my mom had talked me down enough to approach the bathroom where I suspected my nemesis was throwing a kegger with his buddies while wildly reproducing until they formed a giant army designed to take me down (guys, have you seen Joe’s Apartment?????). There I was, in my cropped pajama pants and Sperry boat shoes, armed with a can of Raid and zero confidence. I inched my way into the bathroom as if I was starring in my very own spaghetti western facing off with a Mexican bandit. As I drew my weapon, I discovered that the creature apparently had come to my apartment to die. I found him face up, thrashing his legs about and taking his last breaths. But I was smarter than to believe his act and doused him with Raid until he was sufficiently dead. I should also note that this is the first time my mom has heard me swear as I yelled “Die, you son of b****, die” as I sprayed him. What can I say–it was in the heat of the moment. Victory was mine as I flushed him down the toilet.
I’m still a little shaken up. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted to sleep with the lights on tonight, but I’ve come to a decision: I need to get married if for no other reason than I want a big strapping man around to take care of the bugs and mice. Yep, I realize that’s an antiquated notion and a slap in the face of the feminist movement, but I’m ok with that. Just give me an apron, a pair of high heels and call me Donna Reed.
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