There was a serious minute when Molly and I were kids that we realized that killing bugs is incredibly cruel.  Our mother having written a children’s story about an adorable ant named Theodore certainly had a lot to do with it.  Although, at the same time, all of our favorite stuffed animals were technically rodents, and seeing a few dead mice in the basement makes you think about things.

We began to imagine there were ladybugs living on the ceiling fan, there were spiders in the drain of the kitchen sink.  (There’s some James and the Giant Peach influence here as well, I’m sure.)

At some point I think both Molly and I silently acquiesced that there’s an acceptable death-rate to bugs that infiltrate your house.  It may not be our proudest day, but it happened.  And as unfortunate to this story that it is, we were pretty okay with doing so.

Centipedes have their own rules though.  When there’s that many legs, there’s no expectation of being okay being near such a thing.

I have dated various calibers of bug people.  The main stay in my past was once very anti-insect, but grew up to be a crazy praying mantis PH.D. biologist guy (that is not his technical title, I’m sorry Dave).

I also have a sister-in-law (an influence on my sister certainly!) who loves bugs with the passion of a gross little boy.

Bugs are not my favorite things on earth.  However I would like to state that I am no damsel in distress when it comes to them either.

I know I’ve said I’m newly single, and I think that’s important to my encounter with my first apartment spider.  Having established my alignment when it comes to bugs, my story is short from here.

My ex-boyfriend was a twerp about bugs.  He’d spend decades of minutes in the bathroom, but heaven forbid a ladybug landed in there!

I encountered a gross spider tonight.  I apologize to the spider’s family, but I would like my bathroom walls to not be polka-spidered.  Thank you.