July 25, 2012
Spiderpocalypse 3. Ya know how usually by the time a movie gets to part 3 it pretty much sucks balls and is nowhere near as shocking or amazing or terrifying as the the first one was? That’s so totally not how this went down. At all.
Thursday, July 12th 2012.
Approximately 10:00 am.
Or something like that.
I don’t know for sure.
Because after the events of that morning, time ceased to matter.
As a matter of fact, after the events of that morning, a lot of things ceased to matter.
After the events of that morning, my carefree, willy nilly, “look at all the shiny things” kinda life changed.
I no longer have the luxury of letting my gaze turn wistfully towards something shiny.
Oh. Hell. To. The. No.
There’s not a heck of a lot of willy nilly-ness going on around here either.
I am constantly and forever going to be on freaking HIGH ALERT.
In my daily life I am always on alert for sudden zombies. As we all should be, considering it’s freaking imminent and whatnot.
But my daily Zombie Alert system is such a normal part of my life that it’s just melded into my personality.
I am alert, yet I can still function like a regular person.
Well, as regular a person as I’m capable of being anyways.
Last night I was walking some trails with my mom when I had that sudden zombie feeling. And although we didn’t end up seeing anything but a few geese, I’m almost positive that there was something going on in those woods. Since my mom accidentally sat on a condom on one of the park benches recently, there is very slight chance that what I heard/sensed was just some horny teenagers getting their woodland freaks on or something . But there is an even bigger ass chance that it was Zombies.
But my new alert is much higher that my Zombie Alert.
It’s at a level 10. And that’s high as shit. Because even a level 1 for me is higher than a regular person’s. I am the Chuck Norris of alertiness. My alertiness is mega hard-core. Like, take your highest ever alertiness and multiply it by infinity and add a gallon of awesomesauce and a Chuck Norris kick to the balls, and that’s how much more alert I am than you.
MY level 10 is the “Holy Shitcakes/You Will Never Ever Recover From This” level.
And it’s all because of those GD spiders.
It was a busy morning. I was in the midst of a “Patti Waits ‘Till The Last Minute Pack-A-Thon” for our trip to Missouri, and I was trying to shower and get my shit together. Suddenly The Boy started yelling at me from the other room because there was a spider on the door. I almost flipped out until I saw that it was quite tiny, at which point I was all tough and like “This little thing?” and I grabbed a tissue so I could squish it. Then it jumped. And although that freaked me out a little bit, I still stayed calm and took care of business like a champ.
As I was walking through my bedroom about 10 minutes later, I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. It was a big ass spider in the middle of my floor. It was about the size of a half dollar. Which is about the size of the nuggets that I was about to poop because that is a big enough spider to scare the shit out of me. I called The Boy in for back-up, which consisted of him standing in the doorway yelling at the top of his lungs while I sprayed the spider with Sebastian Shaper Hairspray and pounded him into oblivion with The Hub’s heaviest shoe. (And believe me, I have tested all of his shoes solely for this purpose. MY closet -being mostly filled with flip flops- is useless in the spider killing arena. Plus, I don’t want arachnid guts on MY shoes.)
About 10 minutes after THAT episode, I was on the phone with my sister-in-law while packing up my bathroom stuff, when I suddenly sensed that I was being watched. With a feeling of imminent doom, I slowly turned towards the shower, and there it stood. The Jaws of the arachnid world. This spider:
|“Hi. I am an asshole. I will fuck up your entire mental well-being and then have babies in your underwear drawer.”|
So I did what any normal human being would do. I freaked the freak out. Big time. My sister-in-law must have thought there was a murderous hobo zombie dressed as a clown coming at me with a machete in one hand and a chainsaw in the other, which I honestly would have preferred. I’m not even being dramatic. That is how I really feel. Spiders are my Kryptonite. Well, spiders and John Denver. If you ever wanna do me in then train a spider to sing Rocky Mountain High and let him loose in my abode. Mission. Accomplished.
At this point I totally started freaking the f@ck out. Then I remembered that I had some Hot Shot Spider Killer under the kitchen sink, so I ran to get it, yelling for The Boy to come and help me. But guess what? After I told The Boy that Spider Jaws was in my bathroom, he refused to cross the threshold.
And let me just pause here and say this:
When my OBGYN told me that I was giving birth to a penis, I thought to myself “there go all those mani/pedi’s and tea parties, but at least I’ll have a spider killer in my midst.” What a load of crap THAT dream was. Because as it turns out, my little dude wants ZERO to do with saving my ass from creepy crawlies.
Since The Boy was being a useless turd, I handed him the phone (my sister-in-law was still on the line, confused as all f@ck), and ran back into the bathroom. And guess the hell what? Spider Jaws was gone. So yeah, I freaked the freak out some more, then jumped in the tub so I could survey the area whilst in a protective moat of sorts. After a heart pounding minute or so, I spotted him over by the shower and went balls to the wall spray-a-rama on his ass with my Hot Shot while I screamed bloody murder from the empty bathtub and The Boy screamed bloody murder into my sister-in-law’s ear.
And guess what happened next.
A nightmare of the most epic proportions.
Something that you hear about while sitting by a campfire as a dude in a hockey mask stalks you from the woods.
Something that is so horrifying that the human mind can’t even believe it to be real.
A shitload of baby spiders started running all over the freaking bathroom, abandoning ship after being pummeled with the spider spray. There were tons of them running in all directions. It was so shocking to my human eyeballs that I went a bit comatose for a minute. The horror that I was witnessing wasn’t even registering in my brain. I could not even begin to come to terms with what my eyeballs were seeing. I imagine that’s how people react during major traumatic experiences like war, mass murders, and Justin Bieber concerts. But this was probably worse. Because duh, we’re talking about spiders here. And it happened to me. And everything’s exponentially worse when it happens to me.
When I finally begin to consciously realize the unspeakable horror that was taking place right in front of me, I snapped to it and started spraying the spray all over my damn bathroom while screaming words so foul I’m sure The Boy would have aged a good 20 years instantaneously had he actually heard any of them. Which he didn’t, since he was still in the living room screaming bloody murder, even though he never actually laid eyes on Spider Jaws himself.
Eventually, after what seemed like a thousand shitty lifetimes, Spider Jaws was barely moving. Since he looked extremely physically compromised, I got a little ballsy and jumped out of the tub, ran to the office, grabbed the big ass college dictionary, then ran back to the bathroom where I then dropped it on Spider Jaws and proceeded to jump up and down on it for 5 minutes while yelling “Die! Die! Die!” and “Holy Shit!” on a loop. And the entire time I am jumping up and down on this book, the 2 inches of Hot Shot that I flooded my bathroom with was splashing everyf@ckingwhere. I including on my skin, which will probably erupt in weird growths and protrusions at some point in the near future. Maybe I’ll grow a tiny little twin out of my ankle or some awesome shit like that. Which would really be a great way for The Universe to pay me back for the hell I’ve just had to endure.
After about 5 minutes of jumping, I sprayed the dictionary and vicinity with even more Hot Shot for good measure.
Better safe than sorry.
And better a one-eyed, snaggle toothed little ankle twin than a spider any old day.
After I was fairly certain everything was dead, I went into the kitchen to try to gain some semblance of composure and wash the poison off of my hands.
And guess what happened then?
There was a GD spider standing next to my GD sink looking at me like “What the fuck did you just do, bitch? What. The. Fuck. Did. You. Just. DO???” So I crushed him with a book and put him in the disposal then we threw our shit in the car and got the hell outta dodge.
And I swear to Sweet Baby Jeebus on a tilt-a-whirl, I didn’t stop shaking for 5 days. And scratching. I look like some kind of psycho tweaker. Even now I’m still swatting at things that aren’t there. And I’m constantly scanning the perimeter at ALL times. It’s like I’m looking through some sort of Robocop or Terminator eyeball situation where I see a computer screen that can detect any oddities, movements, or arachnid activity of any kind within a 50 foot radius of me.
I told you.
I am on high freaking alert, you guys.
And It’s starting to take a toll.
It’s like Nam, or something. I keep having flashbacks and bouts of the shakes and involuntary spasms when I think about what happened. I definitely have arachnid induced PTSD. I’ve been away from home for a few weeks but I have to go back to that house in a few days, and I’m scared. The only reason that I have any hope of a normal life is because my cat sitting friend let the bug guys into my house and they supposedly attacked the situation full force. Which in my mind would have been burning the house down, re-building it out of solid metal, then putting it on electrified stilts 30 stories high. But in their minds it was just some old-fashioned spraying and stuff. But my friend has sworn on her life that she hasn’t seen any spiders on the premises. Which is some freaking good ass news.
Plus, she texted me this photo of The Cat a few days ago:
I really like to think that if there was still a Spiderpocalypse 3 going on at my house, The Cat wouldn’t be sitting around masturbating with a tennis ball. So this photo makes me hopeful that all is well.
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