The scene: Me, sitting on my living room floor, lovingly cleaning a year's or more worth of dust off all of my picture frames, updating the pictures, wrapping them in bubble wrap, then placing them in a box. The packing has begun...
Out of the corner of my eye, I see something stir across the rug a few feet in front of me. I look up and do a double take before I realize that it's a motherfucking CENTIPEDE squiggling it's nasty, ho ass across the floor at roughly the speed of light.
"WHA?...WHAA....AAAAAAHHHH! Where'sashoewhere'sashoewhere'sashoe...Where is a GOD-damn SHOE!"
Find flip flop, place on foot and stomp the ever living shit out of the bastard which, by the way, is apparently made of steel because it wouldn't DIE!
When I was sure it was smashed into tiny pieces, I just left the shoe there and decided I should probably wait to pick it up...at least until I stopped shitting myself and my heart lowered itself out of my throat and back into my chest. How in the hell did a centipede get into a second floor apartment? Then, light bulb — the boxes I just brought in from my car have been sitting in my parents' basement for god knows how long. Fucking grooooooooss. Now I'm afraid to touch the other boxes. At least the exterminators are scheduled to come on Wednesday anyway.
I continued my packing, but then every few minutes I'd think about that million legged fuckface and a cold shiver would go down my spine. Uuuugh. I really, REALLY hate bugs.
I've gotten pretty brave since I've been living by myself — I've mercilessly slaughtered a wasp in the shower of my old apartment with a broom/Doc Marten combination; I've flung a book (while screaming) at a spider and I've gotten pretty good at busting out my cork wedges to dramatically smash any silverfish that dares to slither it's bitch ass down the wall — all by myself. Go me.
But, there are just some things I can't do. While I handled the centipede situation as well as could be expected (my friend Kate would have turned herself inside out if placed in a similar situation.), I never want to do that again. EVER. AND, when it's time to clean out my storage unit in the garage, I'm out. Nope. Not doing it...Oh Daaaad...
Yeah, so there's like six things in there, but I opened it up the other day to get some windshield wiper fluid and the spiders were out of control and the force of the shivers and hebby jebby feelings bouncing around in my body....no, just NO. I'm calling my Dad and since he's such a nice dad, he will come over, pull everything out, shake it off and make sure nothing is going to crawl on me and eat my face.
Now, I bet you're all, 'you're moving to Denver and daddy isn't going to be there to save you. What will you do then?'
Ah, yes, well, I've been single for a year now...and that's long enough, which is why the first order of business once I get settled in Denver is to conduct interviews for a boyfriend.
Here are my stats:
I have soft skin, good hygiene and I make a really good lasagne.
(along with many other shining and remarkable qualities)
Here is what I expect from him:
He must kill bugs and not be a douche.
(along with some other minor things that I will secretly screen for during the interview process)
It's a fool proof plan.
Fuck you, centipedes. I totally win.