The other night G and I are sound asleep and then I wake up because he jumps 30 feet in the air and is flinging his arms around like someone lit him on fire.
He turns on the light. There was a roach crawling down his arm.
G kills the roach and because it didn't get on the covers I climb back into bed only to find another roach crawling on the covers.
A flying roach. Yes, down here, some roaches can fly.
To make this shorter, imagine me armed with a can of Raid, screaming, spraying, and closing my eyes because the roach was flying towards my head.
I killed it. Roaches fear me. We spent the rest of the night on the futon. And G sprayed outside, inside, up, down, everywhere the next day. I spent most of the day washing everything that had come in contact with the awful, awful roaches.
I feel dirty, and not in a good way.
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