|OMG GET THIS FREAK OFF
||[May. 4th, 2009|12:59 am]
I'm using this icon and it is damnably appropriate.
Earlier I had the worst run-in in the series I've been cumulating with house centipedes. My ankle felt tingly just above the sock line. I assumed it was just a fold from y bathrobe dangling down and tickling, so I reached with my hand to brush it off.
It didn't quite consciously register within the half-second that my hand had touched something that should not have been there. It must have somewhat because I still pulled back away form the desk allowing light to come in and that's when I saw the fucker scrambling toward the cover of the bed's underside.
Cue freak out.
Yes, I'm a pansy when it comes to anything with more than six-legs, heck, anything that looks like it's got more than six legs. Spiders have me running. Woodlice make me climb on chairs like a cartoon maid. For some reason (I still say it's because I'm a character in a sitcom in another dimension, that or a god, somewhere, is pointing at a tv screen and laughing his head off at me), I've run into more house centipedes since coming in this room two years ago than anything except flies. Pretty much every single of these experience has carved itself a special new place in my nightmares. But these things had NEVER actually climbed on me. This Frankensteinian son of a cranefly and a scolopender had been rubbing its grubby first pair of spindly members in my skin.
It had to die.
Anyway, back to the narrative. By "freak out" I mean "screaming and highly creative levels of cursing" (involving Buddha, Muhammad, Jesus, the whole incestuously extended Holy Family, lotsa chocolate syrup and a ham sandwich, for starters), followed by running out of the room like a demon out of a holy water Katrina-grade hurricane. The only reason I didn't freak out anybody else in the house is that I rent a basement room (going a long way to explain the things, admittedly) and everybody was busy upstairs with visitors.
So I'm there, still shaking out on the edge of hysteria and trying to avoid just running upstairs and curling into a corner because if I don't go back there, I will not be able to make sure the stilted motherfucker is out of the room by the time I go to sleep. I've been told the things are photophobic, so I grab the industrial-grade flashlight (my landlords actually manage a residence for mentally challenged people, so there are a lot of high-grade things around) to make sure the ghoulish silent horror gets out.
Photophobic my ass. He was right there by the edge of the shadow near the corner, chillaxin' as if waiting for me to mount a proper challenge to his multiple-asses. I had to nearly smack it with the thing to get it to move. Ensued scrambling to kick away various items under which it attempted to hide (namely my laptop carrying bag and schoolbag). As it rushed for the closet, my eyes fell on my slippers.
I own a pair of heavy rigid rubber slippers lined with wool. They were a gift from my godmother last Christmas. I can never be too grateful for it now. I grabbed the thing and in a mighty SLAM it was all over, tiny chitinous bit flying everywhere.
I haven't dared yet lift the damned piece of footwear, because that would be, like, y'know, looking into a used kleenex. And this is one of those things that are not necessarily a good idea to do when you're an aspie. I figure the ensuing cleaning will involve long-handled mops, plenty of industrial-grade soap or bleach, and a lot of abuse from a rigid-bristled brush.
Is it necessary to mention my feet have not touched the floor of the room since the incident ? (Fortunately I can use my bed to reach the door easily.)