Yesterday I faced one of those irrefutable facts about becoming an adult. Fact One: It can be really fun sometimes, like when I purposely didn't pick up those clothes from off the floor. Why? BECAUSE I DON'T HAVE TO. And also? Yeah, I'm SO having Lucky Charms for dinner. Fact Two: It can also suck, like when you have to pay bills or call your landlord because your fridge mysteriously smells like rotting carcass.
The irrefutable fact in question that I faced yesterday, in all it's magnificent suckitude, was Fact Two: Life as an adult can suck. And how, you may ask?
I live in an old house. It's a charming house, to be sure, full of vaulted ceilings and odd nooks and crannies. It has its charms (the wood floors come to mind), but it also has it's drawbacks. One of the drawbacks (aside from the fact that I am utterly and completely convinced that it would crumble like a castle made of sugarcubes in the event of even a minor earthquake, a scenario which I rotate in my head a good twenty intervals before falling asleep every night), is that our old house is not only home to my roommates and me. It's also, as of late, been home to housemates of another sort. Of the multi-legged sort. Of the nuke-em-and-don't-be-at-all-shocked-when-they-don't-die sort. Of the scurrying, scattering, skitteriing, afraid of light sort.
If you can tear yourself away from the annihilating cuteness of Wall-E for a second, you will note that one of the minor characters in the movie is one of the major characters of my unfortunate life:
We began noticing them a couple of months ago. And I should pause here and derail for a minute to warn you that if you are at all skittish about creepy crawlies or adjective-laden run-on sentences, then skip to the loo my darling, on down to the next post. I think you'll find it a suitable alternative to the story it is my unpleasant duty to tell.
Are we all set? Good.
Where was I? Oh, yes. Upon flicking on the kitchen light a couple of months ago, we noticed an odd phenomenon: The kitchen. Was moving. What kind of trickery is thi---AIEEEE! ROACH! EWWWW! BUG BUG BUG BUG KILLITKILLITKILLITKILLIT!
And so on. At one point Jody even discovered a little creeper crawling out of her purse. Naaaastay, right? Yes. Well, we sprayed them here and there but mostly we all just tried to ignore them. Could we live together peacefully? I mean, we didn't really use the kitchen after about eleven p.m. every night, so technically, the roaches could have the run of the place until dawn while the rest of us slept in fitful spurts, barely able to live with the fact that, ew, we were so gross. So we made an agreement. It went something like this:
Us: Ok, so, you guys can party hard from the hours of eleven p.m. till 6 a.m., Monday through Sunday. Is that fair?
Roaches: Uh, well, most liquor stores stay open that late, so as long as we can get our SoCo when we want it, I guess that's ok.
Us: But no loud music, understand?
Roaches: UGH. Not even Nickelback?
Us: Not even Rancid.
Roaches: Not even Papa Roa--
Us: That's not funny.
Roaches [reproachfully]: Fiiiine. Deal.
And so it went. We'd go to bed, and the roaches would throw all night keggers and make sweet roach love on the kitchen counters and smoke fat doobies and make midnight Del Taco runs while we slept. It seemed to be going okay until we noticed that hey, hey, hey, guys...we said you could have an intimate soiree. 6-7 roaches, tops. Black tie kind of thing. Roaches listening to Sinatra and swilling scotch from highballs, you know what I'm saying? The roaches were not having it.
So last night I said, "ENOUGH IS ENOUGH."
Me: Hey, roaches. We have to talk.
Roaches: Whuuuuut? Ugh, what's with the bright light and the yelling? I'm nursing a sick hangover this morning, brah.
Me: Yeah, I know. Mixing MGD and Schnapps probably wasn't the best idea.
Roaches: You're telling me. I woke up missing antennae. And my pants.
Me: Live hard, die young.
Roaches: That sounds fairly ominous.
Me: ...Yeahhh...about that. I'm going to have to kill you now.
Roaches: WHAT? Oh come on!
Me: Yep. You and all your friends.
Roaches: Bsh, PLZ.
Me: The parties have gotten out of hand. And I'm sick and tired of being woken up at 3 a.m. to a drunken group rendition of "Tiny Dancer."
Roaches: Those were the times.
Me: They were.
Roaches: Can we at least shotgun one last Tall Boy before the end?
Me: Okay, make it quick.
Me: I SAID ONE PABST, GUYS.
Roaches: Schorry, got a lil out of hand thurre.
Me: Well, get ready to die.
And so it commenced. A ruthless mass genocide of all the roaches in the kitchen. Once we rustled the paper bags wedged between the fridge and the counter, they poured out in droves, roaches scurrying for their lives, roaches trying to find their panties and get out of the house before the cops showed up, roaches screaming bloody murder while they skittered to and fro, one last dance with mary jane, one more time to kill the pain. Jody squealed. I roared. The bug spray went flying.
When it was all over, Jody and I stood in the middle of the bloodbath with a look of cold vengeance in our eyes. We high-fived. We nodded and agreed that it ain't easy being a natural born killah.
And that was the end of the roach infestation of 511 Obispo. Somewhere in roach purgatory, those little buggers are singing one last chorus of "Tiny Dancer."