I'm a big girl. I mean, relatively I'm actually pretty small, but I am grown up. I can also be pretty tough. Even though I often huddle in my bed and cry over social interactions, be they real or hypothetical, I am mighty against bugs.
When I lived in the Outback/Aloha house (our landlords changed the name at one point), my roommates called me The Cockroach Slayer. We would get beastly cockroaches in that house, and no matter how many times we bug bombed, or how well we cleaned, there were always plenty around. However, there was no need to fear if I was nearby. I would hear screams from the other room and run to the rescue, slaying that sucker so hard that all of its ancestors would cry and applaud simultaneously. I don't fear cockroaches, because my hatred for them overpowers any possible fear feelings.
One time, I came home from play rehearsal to an empty house. It was a Monday night and all my roommates were at Family Home Evening at our church. As I took my hair down in the mirror, I saw a cockroach the size of Texas wandering on the ceiling behind me above my roommate's bed. Now, I'm not entirely sure why I gain an accent when I slay, but like all good villains, I do monologue to my prey as I come for them. So, as I grab a shoe, I began to speak to this monstrosity,
"You theeenk you can come eento mai house, Meester Roach?"
and *WACK* I smack him. However, being a cockroach, and thus incredibly difficult to kill, it is not a kill shot, and he falls to the bed. My roommate's bed. What first started as a simple assassination, has now led to an angered cockroach in my roommate's bed, which I am pretty sure she won't appreciate. I continue to hit him, and he continues to live, and eventually escapes behind the mattress and the wall to hide. At this point, I'm enraged; I shove the mattress off the frame in order to finish my murder, and find that I can't find the roach anywhere. I continue my search, by monologuing death threats while yanking boxes and suitcases out from under the bed to find the bug.
"Yoo can rrrun, but yoo caaannot haide, aI weel find yoo, and then aI weel keel yoo." I yell while crawling under the bed.
"Uh, Melly?"
Slowly I back out from under the bed to find two of my roommates and a boy from our ward stood in the doorway to our now destroyed room.
"What are you doing?"
"Oh, hi, guys!" I say, sitting in a mess of boxes, sheets, a mattress, and papers, "there was a cockroach."
Eventually I DID kill the thing. The Cockroach Slayer leaves no survivors. Oh, and I cleaned up the room again. I'm a good roommate.
Two years later and in a new home, Peter and I have found our apartment infested with flies. We are remarkably clean people, and thanks to this influx of flies, have been scouring every surface trying to destroy any source, thus are now even cleaner than before, but STILL THE FLIES REMAIN. Last night specifically, the dozens of buzzing monsters were driving me insane. In the past when faced with flies, I have used rags to whip them dead, but none of the rags in our apartment were the right size for whipping. After trying and failing over and over, while getting more and more frustrated, I ripped off my shirt, screaming profanities and continuing to flail all my limbs in an attempt to connect to anything in a death hit. As I was already sans-pants when this situation begun, I was now an underwear clad, screaming, crazy woman, thirsty for fly blood, and Peter was in hysterics to the end of tears on our couch watching me.
We still haven't solved the problem, but we've put in a work order for new screens, hoping that trapping all entrances into our home will do something good.
Bugs. I loathe thee.
When I lived in the Outback/Aloha house (our landlords changed the name at one point), my roommates called me The Cockroach Slayer. We would get beastly cockroaches in that house, and no matter how many times we bug bombed, or how well we cleaned, there were always plenty around. However, there was no need to fear if I was nearby. I would hear screams from the other room and run to the rescue, slaying that sucker so hard that all of its ancestors would cry and applaud simultaneously. I don't fear cockroaches, because my hatred for them overpowers any possible fear feelings.
One time, I came home from play rehearsal to an empty house. It was a Monday night and all my roommates were at Family Home Evening at our church. As I took my hair down in the mirror, I saw a cockroach the size of Texas wandering on the ceiling behind me above my roommate's bed. Now, I'm not entirely sure why I gain an accent when I slay, but like all good villains, I do monologue to my prey as I come for them. So, as I grab a shoe, I began to speak to this monstrosity,
"You theeenk you can come eento mai house, Meester Roach?"
and *WACK* I smack him. However, being a cockroach, and thus incredibly difficult to kill, it is not a kill shot, and he falls to the bed. My roommate's bed. What first started as a simple assassination, has now led to an angered cockroach in my roommate's bed, which I am pretty sure she won't appreciate. I continue to hit him, and he continues to live, and eventually escapes behind the mattress and the wall to hide. At this point, I'm enraged; I shove the mattress off the frame in order to finish my murder, and find that I can't find the roach anywhere. I continue my search, by monologuing death threats while yanking boxes and suitcases out from under the bed to find the bug.
"Yoo can rrrun, but yoo caaannot haide, aI weel find yoo, and then aI weel keel yoo." I yell while crawling under the bed.
"Uh, Melly?"
Slowly I back out from under the bed to find two of my roommates and a boy from our ward stood in the doorway to our now destroyed room.
"What are you doing?"
"Oh, hi, guys!" I say, sitting in a mess of boxes, sheets, a mattress, and papers, "there was a cockroach."
Eventually I DID kill the thing. The Cockroach Slayer leaves no survivors. Oh, and I cleaned up the room again. I'm a good roommate.
Two years later and in a new home, Peter and I have found our apartment infested with flies. We are remarkably clean people, and thanks to this influx of flies, have been scouring every surface trying to destroy any source, thus are now even cleaner than before, but STILL THE FLIES REMAIN. Last night specifically, the dozens of buzzing monsters were driving me insane. In the past when faced with flies, I have used rags to whip them dead, but none of the rags in our apartment were the right size for whipping. After trying and failing over and over, while getting more and more frustrated, I ripped off my shirt, screaming profanities and continuing to flail all my limbs in an attempt to connect to anything in a death hit. As I was already sans-pants when this situation begun, I was now an underwear clad, screaming, crazy woman, thirsty for fly blood, and Peter was in hysterics to the end of tears on our couch watching me.
We still haven't solved the problem, but we've put in a work order for new screens, hoping that trapping all entrances into our home will do something good.
Bugs. I loathe thee.
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