The following is not a pretty story. Yesterday, when I brought some juice boxes in from the garage, a large bug fell out of the box. Yes, it was a cockroach. I HATE THEM! This one has been seen in our front bathroom, and I've seen it before in the garage, but I'm always so freaked out and busy screaming that I can't manage to squash it. So, it runs behind the TV, and I spend the better part of an hour pulling all the entertainment equipment away from the wall, slapping the floor with a stick to scare the thing, moving cords around, freaking out. To no luck. And I knew what would happen. And it did.
Later that night, I had some friends over to play a game. I knew the bug would come out when my friends were here. I was right. Stu and Will were here, too, when the thing crawls up the wall. I grabbed a floor cleaner, like a swiffer but with a bigger head, and slap it against this thing. It's not dead. So Will, my hero, grabs the swiffer and starts hitting it. He pins it down, and I move my stick and re-position it so it will catch the bug. Unfortunately, it is still alive. So I go loco on this thing, and whack it several times. Stuart sits in his chair, telling me to stop or I'll wake the kids up. I don't care anymore - this thing must DIE. So it's finally dead, and I catch it on my sweeper and carry it out to the trash. The dog looked at it, and backed away. It was that big. So disgusting.
And I know why the cockroaches reduce me to a screaming ninny. It is because of an unfortuante incident in Mexico, where a cockroach was on my shoulder in the bathroom in the middle of the night. I'm serious. It was horrible. And somewhere, as he reads this, my dad is laughing and soon he'll start into a few choruses of "La Coo-ca-ra-cha! La Coo-ca-ra-cha!" and do a little dance that involves brushing an invisible bug off of his shoulders. He thought it was a riot. My sister is probably laughing, too. Someday, I may even think it's funny.