Once upon a time I was soft on bugs.
I promise it is no longer a place of cohabitation in my apartment.
The South Western bugs and I had a firm and friendly understand: don’t touch me and you live.
Did I ever have problems with this? Sure, every once in a while. But every once in a while I’d also rescue a lizard from my toilet or have a frog jump on me during a shower.
I’d hear the scurrying of the rats that live in my ceiling and see the hand-sized spiders that rested on my walls, but for the large part I was never face to face with the transgressors. They respected my boundaries. Living in the middle of the jungle came with a price tag I paid. That price tag was labeled ‘critters’.
Now that I’ve kicked my feet up here in the North West, I’d noticed something about the creepy crawlies I now share a home with: they’re overconfident little jerks.
It doesn’t matter whether I’m butt-over-teakettle in bridge pose during morning yoga or grabbing a cup o’ water before settling into bed, the insects currently taking up residence in my humble abode will waltz out and about as though on a pleasure stroll on the boardwalk.
I for one have had enough. I take my exo-skeletal buddies with a dash of humility. You’re a bug! Have some shame!
I avoided it for two months. I nary lifted shoe nor spay in hate towards the minute roommates of mine, but that all has changed. Once I see you proudly perched on my newly purchased produce, all bets go out the window. Once I see you meandering on the wall next to my pillow, our deal is through. Once I see you dive bomb my computer screen (I’m talking to you, flying roach), in hopes of getting to whatever you assume a brightly lit object is hording from you, our amicable relationship is kaput. We hit the skids. You’re getting evicted.
I write you, readers, with the stink of battle on me. It smells like lemons and comes in an aerosol can. Gone are the days of breadcrumb trails and safe deposits into the safety of the out-of-doors. It is today that I declare it officially: