During my first week in my apartment, Ella drug out a mouse and politely deposited it in the kitchen. I dealt with it.
During my second week in my apartment, a woman committed suicide by jumping off her 10th story balcony into our front walk. Eventually, I got over that.
Yesterday as I was filling up Ella’s water dish, I saw a roach scurry across my counter. I tried smashing it with a liquid soap dispenser, and when that didn’t work, I picked up my cookbook and finally smashed it to smithereens. Then I gagged for about thirty seconds. And then again when I had to pull out two of the roach’s legs from the pages of my cookbook. Can I Lysol paper?
To say the roach is the straw that broke the camel’s back isn’t quite accurate, because I would have gagged and cried over a roach in my apartment had I seen one on the first day. They’re the epitome of filth and all I can think about is that where there’s one, there’s hordes more. Plus there’s that whole thing about them crawling back behind your eardrum. It’s been a fear of mine since I was a kid, and I might literally go mad if that fear were to be realized.
“Roaches are disgusting,” D agreed, “But they’re part of apartment living.”
“Uh, I’ve never had a roach in my apartment. Not ever. Not once.”
“Really? We had them in our apartment all the time in Korea. Costa Rica, too. They were huge.”
June 15 can’t come soon enough.