So there was an insect in my bedroom last night. Not a regular bug. Not a little baby bug that you could confuse with a piece of lint, until it starts to move. No. Not like that.
More like a bug that survived Chernobyl. It might have been smoking a cigarette and flipping channels from my bed when I walked in. Something that size owes me rent.
Now, I'm not afraid of mice, or snakes, or rats, or lizards or anything of that type. But I am deathly afraid of insects.
And, I don't kill bugs. First, because I'm afraid to get close enough to do the killing. Who knows, it might jump onto my face, crawl up my nose, and embed itself in my brain, laying eggs and having dinner parties. Second, because I try to avoid the crunch they make when you kill them. Third, because I'm not a fan of the carnage-clean-up. Bug body parts could go everywhere, legs, antennae, a wing or something equally ridiculous could end up inside one of my shoes. Just the IDEA of that makes my head hurt.
Since I live alone, I had to devise a way to deal with this. So, my brilliant McGyver mind has come up with the most genius of plans. I TRAP the bug under a bowl. Preferably clear tupperwear. Hopefully tossing with aim accurate enough from four feet away to land right on top of it. And then, I just wait until it starves to death. I'll leave that bowl there for weeks if I have to. I don't care.
Now I say clear tupperwear because there have been times when I've trapped a bug under something opaque, and when, three weeks later I went to remove the bowl and the carcass, I found nothing NOTHING underneath. Oh. My. God. That just means it's waiting somewhere in a dark recess of my apartment to do the crawl up my nose, eggs, dinner party thing.
I know it sounds cruel to starve an insect to death, especially an insect whose size requires it travel with a valid passport, but then, it's also cruel to stab it with my stiletto. And really, why get bug insides on my pretty stilettos? So now, I have a pet. A pet on death row. I think I'll call him Stanley.