As much as my boyfriend Scott tries to convince me that we share our casa (trailer) with a family of "water bugs", mine eyes do not deceive me. Those fuckers are COCKROACHES. Light brown ones at that. Makes them grosser somehow. Like usually they are dark brown, almost black. But these south of the border roaches are tan. They are the non-color. Ew. Big, grody tan creepy crawlies that probably have a party on me when I'm sleeping, crawling all over my vulnerable flesh, the bastards. Doing a little cockroach jig and shit...
Personally, I think they should be paying for at least half of the rent. I mean, there are more of them in this place than us. Sure, we may have smashed a few of them into oblivion (And when I say "we" are smashing them, I don't mean me. Not even a little bit.) But it’s survival of the fittest, right? Do they even have little itty bitty roach brains? Fuckers, they probably do. They are probably totally smarter than us too. Which is why they keep popping up out of nowhere scaring the pee out of me.
I hate cockroaches more than anything, ever. Where can I go where there will absolutely not be cockroaches? As with everything I’m sure I'd eventually have to weigh the pro's and con's on that one though. Like, go here to this jungle where there are absolutely no cockroaches but you may have to deal with monkey spiders. Spider monkeys, you mean? No, Monkey Spiders. Well, why do they call them that? Because they are spiders that are the size of monkeys. And eat them. They eat monkeys. So, you know, I'd have to definitely ponder that one a bit.
Great, now I'm all itchy.
When I was in high school we lived in a city that had a scorpion problem. We would every once in awhile find one of the little bastards on the wall or counter or something. One day I was attempting to clean my room and feel as though I pull a muscle in my foot. I lift up said foot and see a huge brown scorpion looking up all pissy at me.
After the screaming and the woozing, the swooning and the dry heaving, my new scorpion friend and I are taken to the hospital. I should really clarify that he was not going to the hospital with me because I was worried I had broken one of his little scorpion legs or anything; we took his carcass to the hospital so when they give me the anti-venom for my horribly fatal wound, they know what kind of little bastard stung me. In the end all they did was hook me up to an IV, check my vitals and tell me to, for the love of Christ calm down, it’s just a little sting, you aren't going to die.
But from the moment I arrived at the hospital the only thing that I was really concerned about was the fact that my legs were hairy and I didn't want anyone else to see that I was sporting my winter leg sweaters. I mean, I was way past the prickly cactus stage and well into soft wooly bushiness. I did everything in my power to stall and make up excuses to not take off my pants and have the doctors see my hairy ape legs. I faked further wooziness. I requested a CAT scan. I complained about tennis elbow. I asked if you needed to have ever played tennis to get tennis elbow.
My mother looks at me all annoyed and tells me to stop embarrassing her and then something to the effect that the doctors won't even notice my unshaven legs because they are 'medical' and see more disgusting things every day. I'm pretty sure she was trying to make me feel better.
But I eventually did remove my pants and get into that stupid paper gown and you could totally see my underwear through it. At this point I'm hyperventilating: the shaggy legs, the tattered and faded underwear. I couldn't even feel the pain from the sting anymore. The pain I felt was from the all-awkward, ridiculously self-conscious, complex-inducing ache of shame.
The doctor was a young guy, which made it so much worse when he lifted my leg to examine the wound. I call it a 'wound' even though it was the size of a pinprick. Despite my mother's promises that he wouldn't notice the scary forest he was holding in his hand, I saw that flicker of revulsion in his eyes when he tried not to look from the bottom of my now swollen foot to my furry shin. I did not imagine that small grimace, that quick look of disgust on his face. The horror was clearly evident on my own face and they are my legs. I turn and glower at my mother for her blatant lies.
When I returned home I limped into the bathroom and proceeded to try to shave. I got one done, but the other was starting to look like I had developed elephantiasis along with a really bad sunburn. My mom finally got me to stop mowing my one normal leg and to go lie down on the sofa since the scorpion poison had traveled up to my hip asking if it really mattered at this point if my fat red leg was fuzzy or not. Those were her exact words. I agreed that it did not, but in my mind I was now concerned that one leg was hairy and one wasn’t.
I have a talent for not seeing the big picture.
Personally, I think they should be paying for at least half of the rent. I mean, there are more of them in this place than us. Sure, we may have smashed a few of them into oblivion (And when I say "we" are smashing them, I don't mean me. Not even a little bit.) But it’s survival of the fittest, right? Do they even have little itty bitty roach brains? Fuckers, they probably do. They are probably totally smarter than us too. Which is why they keep popping up out of nowhere scaring the pee out of me.
I hate cockroaches more than anything, ever. Where can I go where there will absolutely not be cockroaches? As with everything I’m sure I'd eventually have to weigh the pro's and con's on that one though. Like, go here to this jungle where there are absolutely no cockroaches but you may have to deal with monkey spiders. Spider monkeys, you mean? No, Monkey Spiders. Well, why do they call them that? Because they are spiders that are the size of monkeys. And eat them. They eat monkeys. So, you know, I'd have to definitely ponder that one a bit.
Great, now I'm all itchy.
When I was in high school we lived in a city that had a scorpion problem. We would every once in awhile find one of the little bastards on the wall or counter or something. One day I was attempting to clean my room and feel as though I pull a muscle in my foot. I lift up said foot and see a huge brown scorpion looking up all pissy at me.
After the screaming and the woozing, the swooning and the dry heaving, my new scorpion friend and I are taken to the hospital. I should really clarify that he was not going to the hospital with me because I was worried I had broken one of his little scorpion legs or anything; we took his carcass to the hospital so when they give me the anti-venom for my horribly fatal wound, they know what kind of little bastard stung me. In the end all they did was hook me up to an IV, check my vitals and tell me to, for the love of Christ calm down, it’s just a little sting, you aren't going to die.
But from the moment I arrived at the hospital the only thing that I was really concerned about was the fact that my legs were hairy and I didn't want anyone else to see that I was sporting my winter leg sweaters. I mean, I was way past the prickly cactus stage and well into soft wooly bushiness. I did everything in my power to stall and make up excuses to not take off my pants and have the doctors see my hairy ape legs. I faked further wooziness. I requested a CAT scan. I complained about tennis elbow. I asked if you needed to have ever played tennis to get tennis elbow.
My mother looks at me all annoyed and tells me to stop embarrassing her and then something to the effect that the doctors won't even notice my unshaven legs because they are 'medical' and see more disgusting things every day. I'm pretty sure she was trying to make me feel better.
But I eventually did remove my pants and get into that stupid paper gown and you could totally see my underwear through it. At this point I'm hyperventilating: the shaggy legs, the tattered and faded underwear. I couldn't even feel the pain from the sting anymore. The pain I felt was from the all-awkward, ridiculously self-conscious, complex-inducing ache of shame.
The doctor was a young guy, which made it so much worse when he lifted my leg to examine the wound. I call it a 'wound' even though it was the size of a pinprick. Despite my mother's promises that he wouldn't notice the scary forest he was holding in his hand, I saw that flicker of revulsion in his eyes when he tried not to look from the bottom of my now swollen foot to my furry shin. I did not imagine that small grimace, that quick look of disgust on his face. The horror was clearly evident on my own face and they are my legs. I turn and glower at my mother for her blatant lies.
When I returned home I limped into the bathroom and proceeded to try to shave. I got one done, but the other was starting to look like I had developed elephantiasis along with a really bad sunburn. My mom finally got me to stop mowing my one normal leg and to go lie down on the sofa since the scorpion poison had traveled up to my hip asking if it really mattered at this point if my fat red leg was fuzzy or not. Those were her exact words. I agreed that it did not, but in my mind I was now concerned that one leg was hairy and one wasn’t.
I have a talent for not seeing the big picture.
