There is nothing in the world that skeeves me out more than cockroaches. They are even more disgusting to me than the giant sewer rats that skulk along the subway tracks in Manhattan at night. Cockroaches are nature's way of saying, "Fuck you, humans!"
Ugh. I hate them, with their little brown bodies covered in paper-thin veiny armor, their tiny swishing antennae, the way they skitter across the kitchen floor on those skinny little legs when they think I'm not looking. Dicks.
Generally, I'm not a fan of killing anything. I'm the girl who boos at the company when they go to kill a spider in my house, and insist that they usher it into a paper cup and then out an open window so that it can have another chance at life. I cry when a plant doesn't make it. I'm very anti-glue trap.
But cockroaches? Those little fuckers deserve to die.
I shouldn't even have them. My apartment is clean (well, relatively). But my next door neighbor is the most disgusting man on earth, with an apartment overflowing with takeout containers, dirty dishes and newspapers dating back to the Nixon administration. I'm totally fucked. They crawl out his front door and into mine. And they settle down behind my microwave and inside my coffee maker (yech!!!), and eat eachother's heads and procreate.
But I've outsmarted them this time. No cockroach can escape the lure of whatever delicious poison lies in wait inside the little black Combat traps I've stashed all over my kitchen. (This poison, incidentally, smells like hot dogs. I'm not sure why but it does). Extra strength. Double package. He he he. Let the bloodbath begin!