Bugs

Bugs. I hate them. Especially when they are in my living space. I never knew when I moved to North Carolina that I would see such a colorful and varied assortment of insects. My apartment is nestled in a quiet, wooded area that screams ideal at first glance. But, when summer comes, beware. The bugs literally start crawling out of the woodwork. Spiders spin their webs in my vaulted ceiling and all the way down the stairs to get to my car, house centipedes randomly pop up on my walls or underneath the shower curtain, wood roaches (palmetto bugs) occasionally find their way in, and to top it all off a real, segmented, hundred-legged centipede with nasty pincers on its butt casually made its way across the den floor last night. And yes, that's the kind that have a nasty bite. Ugh. If there is one thing that upsets my constitution, it's bugs of any shape or size. Plus, since I'm supposed to be the man of the house, it's always my job to dispatch the said insects, which usually results in an extended staring contest between me and the critter before I build enough courage to take a whack at it. I have quickly learned the importance of having a can of Raid and a flyswatter within grasping distance, and to keep relishing the thought that this is my last full summer to deal with all these crazy bugs.