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One day my friend Lauren and I were horsing around in the high-school library when we noticed a cute little spider hanging out on the wall. After oohing and aahing over it for a little while, Lauren promptly flattened it with her fist. Seeing my horrified expression, she decided to make it up to me by writing "George" in pen above the squashed deceased, with a little arrow pointing towards him just in case there was any confusion.
Two years later, I returned to the school for a little visit and discovered an incredibly well-preserved George still stuck to that same wall, his epitaph also intact with only a small smudge to mark the passing years.
Lauren went on to break hearts and become a famous arachnid hunter, traipsing through the wilds of Asia with a special spider bow on her back, seeking out the thrill of the kill of anyone unlucky enough to have eight legs.
As for me, if a spider is really in my way (though Locke is right--they are usually quite discreet), I gather him up in a paper towel and deposit him outside with a little apology for his having to emigrate so unexpectedly.
The only time I've been actually fearful of bugs was when I spent a long sticky summer in the tropics in a horrible alcoholic little outpost where the sunlight was a strange shade of pink and every day began with an unquenchable feeling of dread. I was prone to hallucinatory dreams, vividly imagining coiled-up snakes, giant scorpions and other horrible creatures somehow making their way through my mosquito net to share the bed with me. That was an evil place, forgotten by God but loved by all the demons of the underworld.
Two years later, I returned to the school for a little visit and discovered an incredibly well-preserved George still stuck to that same wall, his epitaph also intact with only a small smudge to mark the passing years.
Lauren went on to break hearts and become a famous arachnid hunter, traipsing through the wilds of Asia with a special spider bow on her back, seeking out the thrill of the kill of anyone unlucky enough to have eight legs.
As for me, if a spider is really in my way (though Locke is right--they are usually quite discreet), I gather him up in a paper towel and deposit him outside with a little apology for his having to emigrate so unexpectedly.
The only time I've been actually fearful of bugs was when I spent a long sticky summer in the tropics in a horrible alcoholic little outpost where the sunlight was a strange shade of pink and every day began with an unquenchable feeling of dread. I was prone to hallucinatory dreams, vividly imagining coiled-up snakes, giant scorpions and other horrible creatures somehow making their way through my mosquito net to share the bed with me. That was an evil place, forgotten by God but loved by all the demons of the underworld.
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