It was huge. It was moving across the top of the wall opposite me, a mobile, brown stain on all that is domestic and familiar. I don't remember when my revulsion toward large, winged insects was programmed into me; it was probably wired somewhere between ancestral DNA and the poolside wasp attack when I was five. While I regard the prejudicial
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I love you.
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I have a few really, really terrible cockroach stories.
Like the time I found literally dozens, maybe hundreds of roaches hiding beneath the wallpaper border in the shower. (I pulled the wallpaper off and sprayed about an entire can of roach killer.) This was in my apartment which was ONE FLOOR ABOVE a fucking GROCERY STORE, no less.
Or the time my friend Steve whacked a HUGE cockroach with his shoe and the guts sprayed fifteen feet across the room onto my face and arm.
Yeah.
FUCK ROACHES. KILL THE FREELOADING BASTARDS.
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Consider spritzing on some Aunt Jemima and turning the moment into a user icon. ( ! )
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