This morning, I stepped on a cockroach.
I stepped on a cockroach in my kitchen.
There was a cockroach in my kitchen this morning, and I stepped on it.
It didn’t die.
I looked down, still not awake, thinking it was a piece of spinage I had dropped inadvertently the night before. We both froze. A strangled scream came out of my throat. It was either an immediate shower or cutting off my foot, but I was too afraid to take off my clothes for fear I would find my entire body covered with baby roaches laying eggs in my hair and between my toes. It laid there for a minute, then started squirming, waving its horrible legs. I expected it to get up and rush me, so I taped it to the floor with duct tape. I am so incredibly creeped out. I cannot eat in my kitchen or throw away that roach.
When I moved in, I found one dead under the sink, but convinced myself it must be only left from a recent extermination project. How silly. I should have called immediately and let the landlord know.
I have never lived with roaches before and don’t know how they are! One of the guys I work with has, however, and gave me a bunch of advice that creeped me out. They like glue, damp spaces, but can’t get through silicon sealant or steel wool. I must plug every hole, cracks in the floor, and pay particular attention to areas underneath sinks, both in the kitchen and the bathroom. And they’re very hard to poison.
God! I was just ruminating on how lovely it was to have my own space, free from the strange practices and unhygienic habits of others. I just moved in! I want my own place, dammit, free from pestilence.