A quest to make sense of it all. Or a sense to make a quest of it all.

Sunday, January 31, 2010

Ok, so this is the only REAL brawl I've had. (Repost from 6-11-07)

I've taken to dining out pretty much every night. I had been using this as a good excuse not to clean my kitchen, figuring that if no one ever prepared or ate food there, and there were no dirty dishes, that it would just remain in a clean state (Montana, maybe). I figured incorrectly. As is natural law, if something nasty is going to happen in your house, there must be company there to see it. Now granted, the company that night was Brandon and I'm pretty well past the point of being able to be embarassed in front of him. BUT. We decided to make some late-night coffee. We innocently entered the kitchen anticipating the aroma of fresh-brewing java. I casually ground the beans, measured them into a filter, poured distilled water into the carafe. I opened the compartment that holds the filter, and immediately slammed it shut. Was that a....no, no. Brandon paused in whatever story he was telling, sensing the sudden turning of mood. I cautiously leaned forward, opened the compartment just a crack....and slammed it shut with a bloodcurdling scream. It was. It was a cockroach, the biggest I had ever seen (though I admit, I've not seen many). I stood there, shuddering and stammering. Brandon, very confused, looked into the compartment and reacted similarly. I was overcome with total revulsion, but as I stood there quivering, my disgust slowly turned to something else: RAGE. This was my turf. How dare he?? How dare this audacious insect come into my kitchen just like that? I know that people say that when you see a roach it means there's like 4 million more lurking, but I'm not buying that. This was a renegade, and not a bright one. Probably forced out of the tribe for being a dullard. There was nothing lying about to entice him or any of his kind into my house. Steeling myself, I opened the compartment again. He idled there, regarding me with an appraising eye, sizing me up. Time stood still. His antennae flicked. I squinted, channeling Clint Eastwood. He probably did, too. A tumbleweed rolled by and into my pantry. We waited for each other to make the first move. He started to kick a leg out to run, but something, perhaps my cool posturing, made him hesitate. He knew he'd messed up. I seized the moment. With an adrenaline-laced yowl of fear and triumph, I shot forward, slamming the compartment shut again. Hurriedly, I poured the water into the back of the machine and turned it on. Within a few moments, scalding water began to drip into the carafe. Victory was mine.

I threw the whole coffee pot away.

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