OK, It’s 11:30 pm and I’m heading down to the dungeon on a Friday night with a pizza & liter of beer: I am ready to fight some ignorance.
All the lights in the house are off, the wyfe & kids asleep, my PC jukebox is pumping out Crocodile Rock. All around my PC are a number of picture records, license plates from various states I’ve lived in, a couple lithos of cat drawings from The M.O.M.A. in NY, a cool chalk drawing of me & my boy from a street faire–all highlighted by a bunch of colored rope lights (from a couple Christmases ago). So there is some low light. Sandalwood is burning.
As I enter the room I see a largish (size of a quarter) spider hauling ass accross the linoleum and taking cover under a sweater one of the Montoyas has left on the floor. Why is there a sweater present in Summertime? Why is it in *My * room? It’s not my sweater.
This last fact means that I will not disturb this spider. Based on a childhood incedent involving two humongous house spiders, a bed and an 8 year old child (me) I am a living arachnophobe. All of the little bastards scare the pee out of me (except for sanguine ones, they frighten me in an intriguing sort of way that reminds me of my misspent young adulthood…but that’s different). Because ALL spiders want to crawl on me & bite me. Bite my eyes.
As a reasonable human being, my terror of these demon spawn has engendered in me a certain curiosity about the feelings of the sons of bitches before I smash them into oblivion with a shoe or book. Because, for all there malevolence and ferocity, they seem to be simply terrified of everything around them. And so they run from everything and therefore, toward everything else!
I almost feel sorry for them. Except for hissing tarantulas–they must all die.