Summer is full of nice things. Things like ice cream and blackberries and lemonade stands, and not having to wear socks all the time. It’s nice to spend my shower time showering and not trying desperately to warm the frozen marrow of my bones. It’s good to find fresh fruit and veggies in the store, and spend lazy evenings eating corn-on-the-cob next to open windows. I enjoy how it is much easier to coerce Taylor into walking around shirtless.
For all of these nice things, though, summer is also full of bugs.
I don’t mean that metaphorically, like, summer is full of bizarre technical flaws or something. I’m not trying to say that if you wear plaid on a Tuesday in July that the sun will only come up halfway. I mean literally that my house is full of creepy crawlies.
The onset was pretty quick. One day my house was virtually pest-free, and the next my moth trap was a tiny graveyard, littered with ancient little bodies in various poses of regret. Unidentifiable little insects sneak in through the cracks beneath the doors. Weird little black flying bugs attempt to Kamikaze up my nose while I am casually watching Netflix.
All of these aren’t so much an issue, though, as an annoyance. what gets me are the spiders.
Our ramshackle little house seems to be a spider party ground. It’s like one spider moved in and invited his bum spider friends, and now they’re infesting the dark spaces behind the T.V., tapping tiny kegs of spider PBR and keeping me up at night with their obnoxious spider dance music. In the morning, they stagger around with their spider hangovers and decide to sleep it off in the toes of my shoes and the bottoms of my coffee cups.
That got out of hand fast. Sorry.
The thesis here is that spiders are obnoxious little shits and I hate them.
Luckily, this summer has seen fewer gigantic doom-spiders than we have previously discussed. I think we scared them off by flailing Taylor’s shoes in the air, daring them to come out and face size 11.5 wrath. They were all like, “These people are nuts. Don’t we have anywhere else to go? Hawaii? Our cousins in Arizona, maybe? Because we are not staying here. Have you seen what the girl one wears on weekends?” And just like that, they were gone.
All that were left were the little spiders, the ninja spiders. I think of these as the French Resistance spiders. Their land has been usurped by invading forces, and they are determined to stick it out. They wait in the shadows, illuminated only by the glow of their tiny French spider cigarettes, and watch for an opportunity. As soon as I leave the room, the commander shouts, “Oui! Zis is ze moment! Strike! Strike!” and they all quickly spin their vile spider silk across the doorway. When I come back in, I get a face full of web and I curse the French Resistance spiders, shaking my fist at the sky, vowing revenge, but by that time my assailants have long disappeared, back to the shadows from whence they came.
The whole web battle plan seems to be progressing well for the spiders. At first it was only in the distant corners behind bookshelves and in the crevice next to the refrigerator. Then came the previously mentioned doorway problem. After that came a coordinated series of webs just outside my apartment, stretched expertly across the path I have to walk down to get to work, precisely at eyeball level. I go to my car every morning now with a bit of a branch in my hand, woogling it in the air in expanding circles in front of me to prevent myself from getting full-on webbed in the face. It never completely works and I spend the rest of the morning picking shimmery little white strings off my sweater.
This morning brought a new affront. When I opened my car door, a beautifully crafted web stretched from my steering wheel to the window.
Little fuckers were in my goddamn vehicle.
I spent five minutes searching for the offender, but he was pressed into some secret place, taking a long drag off of his spider cigarette and tallying off another victory for the Resistance. I cleared away his mess the best I could, and drove to work. On the last stretch of road, I felt a peculiar tickling across my knuckles and looked down to see my attacker, a pale brown little bastard, scuttling rapidly across my fingers. I responded as any normal person would, by screaming obscenities and banging my hand against the shut window. The spider plummeted beneath my car seat, and by the time I was able to park and look for him again, he had made his escape.
Part of me thinks that I should just leave the spiders alone. I haven’t been bitten. They aren’t doing me any real harm. Getting a mouthful of cobweb every morning when I shuffle yawning into the bathroom is enraging, sure, but won’t really impede me in any other way that morning.
Still, the spiders have made it clear that this is war. We are not going to live peacefully here together. They are doing their damndest to drive me out, and who am I to deprive them of a diabolical enemy? They want war?
I’ll give ’em war.
Just as soon as I have an army that can reach the ceiling.