I think I’ve been getting bitten by a spider in my sleep for a week or so. Waking up with small swollen bumps in places too widely dispersed for it to be a rash or fleas (thank god), I had wondered what was plaguing me. For some reason, a spider never came to mind. We were watching Survivor last night when Miklos suddenly hopped over me, grabbed a tissue, and grabbed something from my cushion. Turns out my Little Miss Muffet-head was about to get bit.
This seems to be a recurring theme. The first time I was taken on a camping trip as an infant, my parents returned home with my eyelids swollen nearly shut from mosquito bites. In my last apartment, there was a large, black, furry spider who I’d frequently see scurrying behind my bed. (I’d have moved the bed to find him, but I figured the broken bed frame and all the crap underneath it was reason enough not to make the effort.) When I finally decided to refresh my bedroom and take on the gigantic task of relocating the bed, who did appear on the carpet in a corner of my bedroom but that dastardly arachnid! Normally, I’m a catch-and-release sort of woman (it’s one of few veins of my personality that I’d consider classy), but when I saw the sonofabitch had nowhere to run, I did a quick consideration of all the bites I’d endured, and then I crushed the shit out of him. Sorry, guy. You drew your blood, I drew mine.
So now I’m on the spider warpath. Should I see any of them, yes, I will still catch and release them, or maybe vacuum them up if I’m feeling comical at the time, but you will not hear of me coddling spiders and silently inviting them into my bed with my sexy blood any longer. Those days are gone.