Killing A Centipede: An Act of American Heroism
I have reached adulthood. I take 2 trains to work, am currently wearing a blazer and recently killed my first centipede. I've put a bounty on every centipede I've ever encountered, but this is the first time I've taken the life of the worst insect known to humanity. Centipedes are the thing I hate most. They are pretty much 10 spiders squished together. I knew this day would come. It was every bit as terrible as I've ever imagined.
A perk of being an adult is being able to drink a beer and take a bath at the same time. Bath beers were my savior on Monday. Honestly, my main motivation throughout the day. It's been a really rough couple of days for me. Beers have been helping. Some people don't agree with this. Those people are wrong. Actually, smashing something sounds pretty good right now, too....or at least squishing something, forcefully. Under these circumstances, the centipede should have been somewhat welcome. Just kidding, they're never welcome ever. UNLESS, I get some rare disease and the only antidote is centipedes. Just kidding, again. If that happens just let me die.
I slid open the bathtub door and there he was, looking directly at me. I knew he was sizing me up and I knew he could tell I was terrified to my bones. We stood motionless, staring each other down in the most horrifying game of chicken ever played. He twitched, I writhed in disgust, I knew that he knew: I was alone. There was no one around that I could command to exterminate him. By "command" i mean "beg and plead while screaming and hopping on furniture until his insect corpse is out of my house". Letting him escape was not an option. Now that he had sensed my crippling fear, his next step would be to start living in my pillows and laying eggs in my hair. If only I had a gun...or a flame thrower.....or a cannon.....or a mace....or even a vacuum. Actually, a vacuum would be perfect. I do not have a vacuum. Oh, the trials and tribulations of having hardwood floors. I turned the shower on full blast and hoped he would fit down the drain. I knew my wish was futile.
He tried to escape. His legs crinkled up and he died. It was the worst. Then he got stuck in the drain and it was actually the worst. I had to psyche myself up, pinch him with a paper towel and put him in the garbage. I put that garbage bag into a dumpster outside. I contemplated calling the city of Chicago department of streets and sanitation to immediately empty the dumpster. They should at very least be warned there's a centipede in there. It's common courtesy.
It was over. It wasn't over. Cue major existential meltdown during which I contemplate my own fragile existence and feel terrible for the centipedes 10,000 children. So many orphans now. I am a murderer. I never knew I was this dangerous; a threat to vermin society. What if getting struck by lightening is an alien squashing a human that creeps them out?
No. I am a hero. I am Boba Fett and Luke Skywalker, the centipede is Jabba and the sarlaac....and the storyline is completely different....just stop thinking about it. I deserve an award. I was expecting a plaque, at bare minimum, from Rahm Emmanuel this morning. He didn't even call. He was probably busy worrying about gun control. He should have been worrying about centipedes and congratulating me. It's ok. I know he's really busy. I also know that no matter how hard things get, if you tackle one problem at a time, everything will be ok.
Things are ok. At least, I'm not a centipede.
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