In a manner which can only be described as EXTREMELY BRAVE (yes, the caps are necessary), I killed a poisonous spider tonight.

A poisonous spider that was lurking with its creeping, hideous, fuzzy legs and scurrying its nefarious way towards my bed. To bite and kill me, I swear.

It is now lying in a fuzzy brown little heap of hobo spider on one of my handmade oriental rugs. The ones from thailand. The ones from the 1920's. The ones that, you know, one doesn't want to be grinding spider bits into.

So it isn't ground in. It isn't really crushed. I kind of whapped it with the heel of a shoe (while squealing and being incredibly and nauseatingly girly). It curled up and squirmed around in a curled-up-spider kind of way, so I hit it again (without mashing it into the rug) and it seems to be dead. It certainly has not moved. Ugh. There is a pile of dead spider on my rug.

And life is complicated. Why is life complicated? That sucks, that whole complicatedness thing.

Ugh.

Love,
Beth

And don't you feel today, too?



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