This morning, while stomping around the house stark naked and in search of a bra, I walked over to the dining room table where I had a stack of folded laundry from the night before. I bent down to pick up a black t-shirt from the top of the stack when I noticed that something was moving. Staring back at me was the fattest, brownest cockroach I have seen in days. (Last week, while throwing pottery a massive one ran by and Toby was asked to put it out of our misery with a sack of unmixed clay.) I totally freaked out and ran into the bedroom all the while holding onto my bare boobs. I tried to speak but nothing was coming out. Finally, I managed to say something.
Kill that fucking thing. Roach on t-shirt. Kill it.
Apparently, I have two real fears; flying and roaches. And I’m pretty sure if you combine the two, I would have an aneurism.