Aaargh it's SPIDERGATE here! There I was, sitting on my nice new swivel-chair, writing...as I do. And then from across the room I see him. A huge mofo of a spider, looking like he was heading out for a pleasure stroll. He was so casual, he was the Sean Connery of arachnids.
If he'd had the shoes he could have done the Highland Jig across the floor and he wouldn't have freaked me out any more than his lumbering, long-legged gait.
I screeched, like a cat thrown into a lake, and grabbed my four year old daughter's shoe, fearing the spider would confiscate it and actually hit me back, I approached him shaking with trepidation. He paused and gave me a "fuck you lookin' at?" expression. I could count each beady little eye on his shiny, black head. They all reflected myself, my own two eyes like saucers, hair almost standing on end. I looked crazed. I WAS crazed.
Screaming like a banshee, I took swift aim and battered that spider bastard to death. Squealing once again when a leg detached and stuck to the shoe like a scene from a horror movie.
He looks so much better smooshed on the floor. It's going to take me some time to work up the courage to remove his sticky, slimy gooiness from my laminate. And like a car-crash, I can't stop LOOKING at him. My mind is playing tricks on me. He appears to be moving every so often, as if he's gonna jump up and say, "gotcha!" and then go for my jugular or something.
I need a drink dammit. Why don't I have any alcohol when I need it!?
Excuse me while I just crawl out of my damn skin for a moment. Ugh. Spiders have it in for me, I swear. I've been naming them recently. I had Norman. Then I had Bates. I think I'll call this one Cathy.