Why Carrie Underwood’s face is now covered in guts
I have lived alone for the past 2 years, and to be honest, there are very few times that I wish for a roommate. I love to have my space, and to know that if I clean up, the house stays clean. Or if I leave a mess, I’m the only one who has to deal with it. Silence is a beautiful thing, as is my iTunes on shuffle – and it’s wonderful to have the freedom to choose which to exercise on any given night.
That said, there are a few times when I wish that there was somebody else around:
1) When I am dying my hair.
2) When I have nightmares (happening all-too-often these days).
3) When I find a Huge-Ass Bug (HAB).
Number 3 happened this morning.
I awoke to my alarm, and, channeling the magnificent Dolly Parton, I “tumbled out of bed and stumbled to the kitchen, poured myself a cup of ambition.” There I sat, peacefully enjoying my coffee and egg-on-toast, catching up on the news through Good Morning America – a very typical morning for me. I opened the blinds to look up at the sky, attempting to decipher what the weather might do today, and deemed it a good morning for a long walk. Time to change my clothes.
I turned and walked back down the hall (and by “down the hall,” I mean 2.8 feet) to the bedroom. I make it just inside the doorway when I see it. IT. The worst HAB of them all: a tarantula. On my ceiling. Which, if you’ve seen my apartment, translates to “3 inches above my head, ready to drop and lay its eggs in my flowing locks.”
[Pause] Right. So. I don’t know if it was actually a tarantula, but it was by far the biggest spider I have ever seen – the type that you know that if you crush it, you will hear its very bones snap. And I am not joking – I would not joke about this. HABs are no laughing matter – they are of grave consequence.
[Unpause] Where were we? Ah yes, the HAB and I in a face-off, its legs creeping out toward me and venom dripping from its fangs. I saw my own reflection repeated over and over in its multi-faceted eyeballs. Man against beast, I knew that this apartment was not big enough for the both of us. And I knew what I had to do.
I slowly backed out of the bedroom, violently shaking both hands, my face twisted into a permanent expression of horror, and mumbling pitiful words like, “No, no, not me, NOT ME, ewww, no no no, why, God, why?” And then, in what can only be described as an out-of-body experience, I grabbed the closest magazine that I could find. And charged the bedroom William Wallace style.
Let this be a lesson to arachnids everywhere. I take no prisoners, and leave nothing but awe in my wake.