Apparently, my husband and I weren’t the only inhabitants enjoying the warmth of our teeny apartment. But, I’m pretty sure that we’re the only ones who pay rent. I popped out of the shower, squeaky clean and energized, at 6:39am. I dried off with a towel, thinking of the day’s activities while still immersed in the lingering aroma of White Rain’s “Energizing Citrus”. It was going to be a good day. I had a glimpse of the day’s potential. Or, I did, until a thousand legged millipede interrupted my happy thoughts crawling across the wood floor in the kitchen. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on edge just thinking about it.
I hate, hAtE, HATE millipedes, centipedes, and anything else that ends with “pede”. Millipedes make my gag reflex kick into overdrive, my skin prickle, my fingernails peel, and my imagination run amuck with horrifying “Fear Factor” thoughts. My heart rate rises just typing about the wretched creatures. I’m going to have to eat a chocolate cupcake to calm my nerves after this blog.
I stared at the millipede. A towel dangled from one arm. My hair dripped a pool of cooling water on the tile. I stood frozen, afraid to move. He (the millipede) sensed my presence and stopped trotting across my floor. The fluorescent light illuminated our figures against the otherwise dark apartment.
In a perfect world I would have yelled for my husband to wake up, jump out of bed, roll up a magazine, flex his muscles, and use his manliness to kill the enemy. Save his wife! Oh, no. Not in my world. My husband wouldn’t do that because he is just as scared of millipedes as I am. He wouldn’t be of any use. I had to squash the enemy. The burden was on my shoulders.
I dropped the towel, long jumped over the adversary, and streaked across the apartment with wet hair flying. I had to make a choice – my stiletto or my husband’s shoe? Honestly, the decision was easy. I grabbed his shoe and slid back to where the bug waited… motionless. Was he dead? Did he have a heart attack? Succumb to old age? Could I be that lucky? No! He moved. Yikes! I screamed and slammed the shoe down with uninterrupted brutality. I breathed and lifted up the shoe. Dead. Smooshed beyond recognition. Just the way I like them.
A muffled noise came from the other side of the apartment. My husband asked what was going on. Was I okay? Just fine, I replied, just fine. I dropped his shoe, dusted off my hands, and continued with my morning routine. You can’t stay if you don’t pay.
I hate, hAtE, HATE millipedes, centipedes, and anything else that ends with “pede”. Millipedes make my gag reflex kick into overdrive, my skin prickle, my fingernails peel, and my imagination run amuck with horrifying “Fear Factor” thoughts. My heart rate rises just typing about the wretched creatures. I’m going to have to eat a chocolate cupcake to calm my nerves after this blog.
I stared at the millipede. A towel dangled from one arm. My hair dripped a pool of cooling water on the tile. I stood frozen, afraid to move. He (the millipede) sensed my presence and stopped trotting across my floor. The fluorescent light illuminated our figures against the otherwise dark apartment.
In a perfect world I would have yelled for my husband to wake up, jump out of bed, roll up a magazine, flex his muscles, and use his manliness to kill the enemy. Save his wife! Oh, no. Not in my world. My husband wouldn’t do that because he is just as scared of millipedes as I am. He wouldn’t be of any use. I had to squash the enemy. The burden was on my shoulders.
I dropped the towel, long jumped over the adversary, and streaked across the apartment with wet hair flying. I had to make a choice – my stiletto or my husband’s shoe? Honestly, the decision was easy. I grabbed his shoe and slid back to where the bug waited… motionless. Was he dead? Did he have a heart attack? Succumb to old age? Could I be that lucky? No! He moved. Yikes! I screamed and slammed the shoe down with uninterrupted brutality. I breathed and lifted up the shoe. Dead. Smooshed beyond recognition. Just the way I like them.
A muffled noise came from the other side of the apartment. My husband asked what was going on. Was I okay? Just fine, I replied, just fine. I dropped his shoe, dusted off my hands, and continued with my morning routine. You can’t stay if you don’t pay.
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