It’s that time of year again! You know, when you have to turn the light on before walking in the room to make sure there are no cockroaches around. I’m in Florida, and they are everywhere. When it rains (which seems like most days lately) they find shelter inside our house. Yuck.
Now, I am not a violent person and I love animals. Even snakes and frogs and lizards and geckos. And butterflies and roly polies. But there is one creature I cannot deal with and I cannot love: cockroaches. They are big and gross and get caught in my hair when they fly (which turns me into a gymnast/dancer/contortionist). I just can’t handle it. So, when they’re inside, they are in serious danger.
When Tate’s around, I have him dispose of them. I usually have to see the body, though, because he’s notorious for telling me he killed them when he didn’t. He knows when I scream, it’s not because there’s a person in the house; it’s because there’s a roach in the house.
When he isn’t around, I kill them myself (screaming like a banshee the entire time) and then leave whatever shoe I used on top of it so the furbabies don’t play with it before Tate can get rid of it. Frank is notorious for rubbing himself in dead bugs. And Dutchie just likes to bat them around the house. So. Gross.
No joke, one time I needed a shower but there was this massive roach in the tub, hiding behind the shampoo bottles. I drove ten minutes (both ways) to pick up my mom, brought her to my house so that she could kill it and get rid of it, and then took her back home. A total of an hour spent just to kill a roach. That’s how bad it is.
Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever actually become an adult.