One thing I struggle with is forcing myself to sit down and accomplish assigned tasks. I’ll get things done, but only if they’re not a priority. But I figured, I’m a month from graduation. I should be past that, I’m an adult for god’s sake! So tonight was different. I carefully built a playlist, snuggled under some fluffy blankets, and resolved myself to get it done. I aimed high: write an adaptation of Tennessee Williams’ “Life Story,” read Crepaz & Steiner, and get through another chapter of Kraus. Yes! Mental stimulation, expanding my mind, exercising that writing muscle, and something to do besides eat junk food and watch videos of cats. Glory be. 

Before I could even finish congratulating myself for being so on top of my responsibilities, disaster struck. A terrifying monster skittered towards me across the fluffy blanket and I saw its eyes, its full intention to inflict some horrible atrocity on me. So I did what any sensible person would do: I flung my computer into the air, ripped my headphones from my ears, and bolted from my bed while emitting shrieks of pure terror. Simultaneously. (Oh god, what do the neighbors think? Will there be a knock at the door? Do they think I’m being murdered, or are they used to the strange noises coming from my apartment? These questions might have to wait.) In the midst of my panic I marveled at the swiftness of my movements and wondered why I never considered a career as a professional sprinter. But! There was a crisis at hand so dreams of athletic grandeur would have to wait, however tempting the daydream of cheering fans and all the gatorade I could ever want might be. 

Clearly the monster had to be killed, no question there. The problem was how this would happen because although I have performed many acts of bravery (such as dashing into a burning building to save my cat — he is not as appreciative as one might think but that’s another story) I am rendered helpless in the face of things that creep and crawl. Previously I employed various roommates and friends to commit the act of murder but this wasn’t possible in the moment. No, it was up to me. I chose to live alone and now I had to deal with the consequences. The weight of this realization didn’t sink in until I was searching my bed for the vermin. As I gingerly folded back the blankets and yelped, I doubted myself. I couldn’t do it. (Why did I ever entertain the thought of myself as a strong, independent person? Perhaps I should move back in with my mother.) I picked up the blankets, flung them across my room, checked the bed, and tried to accomplish something even though there was a horrific creature in my midst. 

But how does one focus under such fearful conditions? Certainly I am not the one with the answer because I couldn’t. No, I wouldn’t. I am not one to leave a threat unattended; I am not one to be willfully ignorant and blind to danger! No matter how petrifying, I knew I had to muster the courage and execute the deed. Unfortunately the varmint had disappeared. (This, somehow, was far more disconcerting than it skittering towards me.) But did I look for it? Of course not. I again resorted to the “sensible person” plan: I complained to my friends on the internet. (The computer, thankfully, was not a casualty of the onslaught.) I was met with feigned pity and patronizing phrases. My allies were failing me. I have terrible taste in friends. After the atrocity at hand was dealt with, perhaps my association with these fair-weather friends would be reevaluated.

I did not have time to dwell on my defective support system because the demon reappeared in due time. I knew what had to be done so I grabbed my largest heel and blazed forward, desperately trying to summon the barbarity of every Greek hero I could imagine. Not surprisingly, I succumbed to the shrieking. It wasn’t even moving but it didn’t have to. I could see the potential for devastation in its stillness. Plotting. Waiting. Bastard.

After the first few unsuccessful strikes I seriously considered surrender. Seriously considered: moving, fleeing the country, arson (maybe not), witness protection, false beards, and the like. But I thought of the work to be done, the ideas to be had, the ever-tempting intimidation a blank Word document provides. The fame. The glory. The gatorade. No, I had to press on. So with a warlike cry of vengeance, I let the Heel of Retribution fall on the monster’s exoskeleton. A perfect strike, the perfect kill (I hope). The path of an assassin might be my next endeavor. 

I couldn’t find the corpse, but it hasn’t appeared since so I think the message was delivered.

Fucking centipedes.