How we do things where I live.

So, I'm sure you're all sick and tired of me whining about bugs. But, honestly, that's likely just too bad, so today I'm going to whine about bugs. Again.

You see, where I live - literally, the apartment I reside - is a haven for creatures of many, varied sizes and leg counts. Including The Cats, but, well, they don't climb walls and try to eat me. At least Chicken doesn't, anyway.

Over the weekend a beast with antennae and jointed legs and a shell (?) hovered on the wall above my pillow. Naturally, I screamed because, hi, it's what I do. The Fiance was in the bathroom because WHERE ELSE WOULD HE BE when my life is in danger? I continued to scream, he continued to be in the bathroom.

Eventually he emerged because, ARE YOU DYING, why are you screaming? Is the apartment on fire? No, silly. There's a bug.

He gently - and SLOWLY - picked the Evil-Doer from off the wall (TWO-AND-A-HALF-INCHES FROM MY PILLOW. Where I rest my head) with a Kleenex.

"Oh. I feel bad," he uttered, head tilted, looking at the Thing Which Had Plans To Eat Me.

Blink. Blink-blink. BAD? You feel BAD? Who IS this man I am to marry? WHO?

After my convulsions over his guilt ceased, he flushed It down the toilet. I'm sure he was prepared to lose sleep that night, plagued with nightmares of a defenseless Creature Bug drowning in a pool of urine and sludge. Only, FOUR HOURS LATER, when we returned from a night out, I sleepily lifted the toilet lid to sit down and empty my bladder (YES, I use toilets now), and WHOA. WTF. JESUS CHRIST. ETC., ETC. There it was - THE BUG. Swimming around all happy-like in the bowl. Note that it was ALIVE. Breathing. Or gurgling, or whatever.

I almost died, just so everyone knows and so we're clear on this. The Fiance and I may or may not have had a brief lapse of judgment and argued over said Live Bug Swimming In Toilet, and I may or may not have told him to take a Prozac, but nevertheless, I flushed the Thing, and it is no more.

* * * *
Now let's talk about yesterday morning. And how we do things where I come from - GUILT-FREE.
The Roomie and I are preparing for our days, la, la, la. Look at us. We're applying make-up and drying our hair.

Suddenly a shriek emerges from the bathroom, and The Roomie says something about BIG and also BUG.

So, of course, we both shriek.
I scramble into the bathroom and see, on the wall, a millipede. Likely an angry descendant of The Carcass Harley Ate. It was all crawl-y and leg-y. And angry, of course.
WHAT DO WE DO? HELP.
Clearly we do what any female would do, after scream. We grab a bottle of aerosol hairspray and release probably its entire contents on the wall, and some on the bug. Mr. Bug began to crawl MUCH slower, drowning in a pool of Aussie Instant Freeze Hairspray. He probably screamed, but, well, we don't care about that.
He took his last breath and pretty much died on the spot. Because he had no choice in the matter. He was glued to The Spot.
As would any professional exterminator, we followed up our action with a quick swipe of a Swiffer. On the wall. And scraped bug remnants out of the hairspray. Magical!
Problem solved.

And I can see why this is so much better than feeling guilty and flushing and fighting about Prozac.