It is the season.
Within the past two weeks, I have seen a spider crawling up the sleeve of my $90 sweater. I have seen a dead spider lying in state at the bottom of my purse. I have heard a cricket scraping away like a demented fiddle in the wall between my kitchen and bathroom. And tonight I saw – and dealt with – a silverfish in my bathroom.
I have something to say.
To the insect population that has the unmitigated neck to cruise around my apartment: I know that the weather has been wet and rainy. But know this: my apartment is not meant to be a YMCA for your sorry, water-logged asses. If I catch sight you, you will know it. You will sense the fear, hear the disgust, and then you will feel my fly swatter getting medieval on your segmented thoraxes. You might enter my apartment whole, but you will leave it as a curled carcass, and be given a burial at sea, with all flushing rights. Or you might be immortalized forever on my walls as a dark, non-erasable stain. It matters not – but death must be the answer.
I know your ways, you nasty, little unwelcome creatures. You proofs that Nature really did have an "oops!" moment. I know when and when not to mad dog you. I know how not to cast my shadow. I will sneak up on you, a silent assassin, armed with flyswatter and rolled up (and already read) magazine, ready and believe me, my scurrying frirends, willing to engage in battle.
Once you cross the threshhold, you surely must abandon all hope.
So I give you one last chance.
Stay out of my neighborhood.