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I lived in Alaska for 15 years and can't recall seeing a single roach anywhere that I lived.
Sure, there was the occasional spider and mosquitoes the size of hummingbirds, but no roaches.
I've been living back in the South for a little over a month and I've encountered far, FAR too many roaches. Crawling on counters, scuttling along baseboards, creeping across the goddamned ceiling.
And they disgust me.
I hate them and I want them to die.
I saw one tonight, on the kitchen counter, the size of my big toe. Less a roach than a super-roach. When I flicked on the kitchen light, there it was, glowering at me.
I grabbed the nearest weighty object, a bottle of pop, and brought it down on the creepy little bastard as hard as I could. But the roach was quick and scurried away, fleeing into the sink where it circled the basin like a Nascar racer.
I grabbed a flyswater and whacked at the thing with desperate abandon, swearing the entire time. But the flyswater was some flimsy piece of plastic trash and it took about six hits before the damn bug was dead. Dead and sprawled in the sink, its juices spattered, brown against the white basin.
And I stood over that sink tonight, exaulting in the death, actually trembling with rage and disgust.
I HATE roaches.
Sure, there was the occasional spider and mosquitoes the size of hummingbirds, but no roaches.
I've been living back in the South for a little over a month and I've encountered far, FAR too many roaches. Crawling on counters, scuttling along baseboards, creeping across the goddamned ceiling.
And they disgust me.
I hate them and I want them to die.
I saw one tonight, on the kitchen counter, the size of my big toe. Less a roach than a super-roach. When I flicked on the kitchen light, there it was, glowering at me.
I grabbed the nearest weighty object, a bottle of pop, and brought it down on the creepy little bastard as hard as I could. But the roach was quick and scurried away, fleeing into the sink where it circled the basin like a Nascar racer.
I grabbed a flyswater and whacked at the thing with desperate abandon, swearing the entire time. But the flyswater was some flimsy piece of plastic trash and it took about six hits before the damn bug was dead. Dead and sprawled in the sink, its juices spattered, brown against the white basin.
And I stood over that sink tonight, exaulting in the death, actually trembling with rage and disgust.
I HATE roaches.
