[This series is a play on ‘writer’s block’.]
[This may or may not be a trope.]
So I spent the entire morning disinfecting and cleaning my kitchen counter. This saga started a few days ago when I noticed a baby cockroach crawling on the kitchen floor. I went into immediate panic and sprayed it with this supposedly “odorless” insect spray. I must have sprayed the entire content on such a poor little creature, and even thought of reporting to my landlord to call in the pest control people in the building. But then I thought, such a small thing, I can handle it.
Then two nights ago, I started hearing weird sounds coming from the kitchen counter where I leave the plates and cutlery to dry before putting them away. Needless to say, I sprayed a generous amount of the repellant all over the place, and that is why I had to spend Sunday morning disinfecting the area. But that’s getting ahead of the story.
I realized spraying it and assuming whatever was making the noise would die is not the solution. I had to get to the root of it and find out what is making the noise. But you know humans, they’re terrified of pests nevermind if they are smaller than us. What is it about them that terrifies us so much, I wonder?
But I had no choice but to handle it myself since cleaner wasn’t scheduled to come until next week, and so I did, putting on loud music before I started to you know, give me courage and put me in the mood. I started by pouring boiling water on some plates that were left to dry. After clearing the counter, there were only pans and a fancy little wooden dipper I bought during a trip to Laos. It was left face-down on the corner of the counter and hadn’t been used in such a long time since the plants I dared to raise all died (cacti also die on me).
I had this dreadful feeling that the culprit must be inside the dipper so I deliberately left it for last. When everything was clear, I took a deep breath and slowly lifted it. Nothing happened. This was harder than I thought and with a forced resolved, I turned the dipper up. AND I SCREAMED. Playing music loud was a good idea after all.
Out came crawling a medium-sized cockroach that must have been so relieved to be finally set free. I didn’t have time to wonder how in the world did it get in there or how long it has been in “captivity” and quickly grabbed the repellant, spraying it with what remained of the contents.
Of course cockroaches never die. Or they never die easily. It flew all over the place with me chasing after it screaming like a lunatic with spray on hand. Thankfully, security hasn’t knocked on my door yet to check what’s happening.
When the roach finally gave up and plopped on the floor, I approached it warily and sprayed some more when I saw it was vainly flapping its arms weakly. More weak flapping and I couldn’t help wondering why this damn stupid pest doesn’t die. (I Googled “why cockroaches don’t die” and got these results: 10 fascinating talking points; cockroach facts.)
Scary reading if you ask me. They will survive even Kim Jong-un’s nukes.
Meantime, my apartment is back to normal.
One cockroach was harmed and killed in writing this post.
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