You know that I have a history of cockroach run-ins, from the abjectly disgusting (toothbrush) to the "I want to cut off my own leg" (cockroach on my shorts, touching my bare leg) to the garden variety "insect roommate" (Rembert St. house in Memphis). There's a Simpsons when Homer looks at Bart and asks what he's doing, and the next frame is Bart covered head-to-toe in a living suit of bees. "They chose me," Bart says.
I can relate.
Chris came over again last night and we hung out and watched Arrested Development. (Which he has never seen, and which is also a secret test of his humor: he passes.) And what do you want to discover when your fella is at your house? A cockroach. Don't worry, George (Michael) of the Jungle had already killed it, but still. It's a little embarrassing, like an indictment on your housekeeping skills.
So I suppose it's a good thing he wasn't around this morning when I found ANOTHER one in the dining room. Again, GM had already literally torn it limb from limb, and it was the big kind, which means it came in from outside looking for water (as opposed to the tiny, your-house-is-infested kind). Which I suppose should be comforting, but it's just not. Just: ew. I do not want to live this way.
And then GM barfed. Apparently he doesn't want to live this way either.
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2 comments:
I think you meant to say "Fo shizzle," grandma.
jk!
Dammit to hell. I meant that comment to be on the previous post. I meant this post to say:
"His name is Chris? He passes the 'awesome name' test."
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