I don’t even really want to talk about this, but I also can’t stop talking about it, so I’m just going to come out and say it.
Joey killed a cockroach in our apartment last night.
I just…I just can’t, you guys. You remember this? That was less than two months ago. I have just BARELY recovered. I JUST CAN’T.
Here’s how it went down:
I was sleeping soundly when I was suddenly ripped from my sweet dreams by the sound of Joey yelling and (at least what sounded like) killing someone. Violence. I was awoken by violence.
In half a second, I realized that he was stomping on the ground a mere two feet from where I had been sleeping. And I knew. I knew, you guys.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” I shrieked, still half asleep. He whipped around to look at me, a wild look in his eye. (I assume. I didn’t have my contacts in. But he was definitely frazzled.)
“I don’t want to tell you,” was his reply. AND I KNEW.
“What, wh- HOW?” I stammered. I may also have started repeating “no no no NONONONONO.”
He explained that he’d spotted it crawling on a rolled up rug we have in the corner. When he shined the light from his phone on it, it took off. “It was fast.”
At this point, I start just shaking uncontrollably. And maybe hyperventilating. I just kept asking, “Is it dead?!?”
Joey assured me it was. “ARE YOU SURE?!?!!!!”
He informed me that its “carcass” was on the ground “right there.” But I couldn’t see it because I didn’t have my contacts in. Probably for the best.
I asked him why the traps we had bought and set out in every corner of the apartment hadn’t caught it. Joey got shifty and replied at the traps he bought “weren’t made for something this…size.”
At that point, I promptly lost my mind.
I mean. I tried to fall back asleep. But I would literally jerk awake if ANYTHING touched me (blankets, Joey, my own hair, ANYTHING). Sometimes nothing would touch me, I would just wake suddenly and smack Joey and say something like, “TRAPS. YOU NEED TO BUY TRAPS TOMORROW. LIKE TWENTY TRAPS.”
He would mumble okay and then go back to sleep. I would doze until my next conniption. (“DID YOU FLUSH IT?!? YOU HAVE TO FLUSH THEM.”)
I mean, they can survive atomic bombs, you guys. They survived the dinosaurs. WHY DOES MY HUSBAND THING HE’S MORE CAPABLE OF SLAUGHTER THAN WHATEVER KILLED THE DINOSAURS?
Obviously, I’m not okay.
I started telling my boss about this, and she replied with her own cockroach nightmares and then finished with, “You know they fly, right?”
Me: “NOT ALL OF THEM. Only some of them fly.”
Her: *leaning in* “Most of them fly.”
My eyes actually welled with tears when she said it. I can’t live in a world where most cockroaches fly.
I’m thinking my options are to buy a cat (according to my boss) or burn the apartment down. Those are the ONLY options.