buh

DO NOT READ THIS ENTRY IF YOU ARE HIGHLY SKEEVED OUT BY BUGS. GO GOOGLE SOMETHING ABOUT PUPPIES. I WANT A BERNESE MOUNTAIN DOG, GO LOOK AT THEM. THEY MAKE CUTE PUPPIES.
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Right. So I was having a hard time getting to sleep, and I got up to go to the bathroom, and there was a big fucking roach in the bathtub. This is Texas, the BFRs are very, very B, and they get thirsty and like a drink of water. It happens. That’s why I have cats.

But my grandmother had sent me home with a can of roach spray this evening, so I went and got it. I sprayed the roach, and took advantage of the little spray straw attachment to put a little “and tell any of your friends they can fuck off” squirt into the spot where there’s some tiles missing and into a crack in the grout around the faucet.

Now back there in the wall behind that faucet, in the office next door, there’s some drywall missing. The hole is blocked off with a flattened cardboard box, and I may or may not fix it since the landlord will one day have to tear that wall open to fix the occasional drip-back from the shower head, which is attached to the plumbing inside the wall instead of outside the tile like in the normal world.

Look: all hell broke loose. Back there, in the wall with the occasional drip of water, you could say there was a party going on in there. Or, perhaps, a large thriving community. And they weren’t so much pleased with getting gassed.

For about half an hour, I did battle with a flyswatter in one hand and a rolled up newspaper in the other, wearing clogs. You could say I did my own impromptu rendition of Riverdance back and forth between the bathroom and the office. Occasionally I would grab a plastic pitcher and cart casualties off to the toilet. On other occasions, a stray tendril of hair would brush my face and I would squeak loudly.

Finally, I closed both doors, left dire notes on them (B slept through it all - the Riverdancing, the squeaking, the thump of my rolled up newspaper and flyswatter), and went to the grocery store. I bought three dry foggers and one of those kitty-litter-to-go cat boxes.

Oh, there’s no way I’m picking up a $100 piece of essential poo disposal machinery in a room full of roaches. I’d have dropped and broken it, for sure. Plus, some of the refugees were in the closet with the litter box.

When I got home. I steeled my nerves and got my flyswatter and a roll of trash bags and went in the office. I evacuated the cat food, the electronic piano, and some shoes. I shut off all the machinery and wrapped it in plastic bags. I moved the cardboard away from the hole, and I set off a fogger. I went in the bathroom and set off the other. I plugged the cracks at the bottom of the doors with towels.

Then I remembered that I hadn’t covered B’s keyboard and I didn’t want him putting his hands all over a death-toxin-covered keyboard and then, like, rubbing his eyes, so I put a wet paper towel over my face and ran in and threw a towel over it. They are not shitting about the “dry fog”. Walking in that room was like stepping into Stephen King’s short story “The Mist”.

It’s been an hour and a half since then and my nerves are just now starting to calm down to a point where I might eventually sleep. I am tormented by the fact that there is currently no accessible bathroom in the house, because I am also very thirsty but drinking anything will just lead to sadness.

I did my best to make sure nobody escaped the two rooms, but I hear a survivor somewhere in the corner of the room. My chances of sleeping tonight are slim. My biggest fear is that one of the poisoned ones will get out and the cats will eat it, though I have stuffed the cracks of the doors very tightly.

Yeah, I’m never sleeping again.