Is Anybody Out There? ...izzat you, Spidey?

Goddamn it! Now I'm all paranoid.

Gayboy and I have shared far, far too much red wine tonight. Just before he's about to leave for the night, he goes to the washroom. He comes out, "I don't know how to tell you this, but you have a spider behind your epsom salts."

"How big?" I ask.

He holds his finger-thumb an inch in diameter. "About so."

"Simple. Go get your shoes on and stomp on him."

"Fuck no! I hate spiders."

"Ah. Sissy man." I get up, stumblewalk over to my sneakers, slip 'em on. Off to the john we went.

On the floor, next to the tub and wall, is a big-ass jug of epsom salts. I'm gonna ask London Drugs to change the name "Big Ass Jug of Epsom Salts" because I think it's what's responsible for bending the frame on my scooter.

So, it's large enough for a spider to hide behind.

But in front of it was: a rag and a spray bottle of cleaner. Beside it: cedar box with an intelligent array of reading material, both in short and long form.

Modus operandi: When hunting bathroom spiders, remove the exterior hiding locales 'cos the critters like to pull back and are inclined to move away... so, leave the corner for last, and eliminate the bullshit between you and soon-to-be-squashed spidey.

Which is what I did as GayBoy cowered and eeped behind me. But... no spidey. Hmm. I moved the cloth. Then the spray cleaner. Booted the reading materials aside. I shook the towel out. "Eep!" a small voice beside me said. "I'm outta here."

Probably wise. All that stood between us now was the epsom salts. I would've jumped ship earlier, but since I'm the storyteller and historians are often the victorious, well. I moved the trash can, every single thing in that bathroom, and no spider. None. Di nada. Zilch.

And while I mostly think GayBoy is just being paranoid after drinking too much of the "flying coach again" class of red wine, I can't be entirely dismissive that maybe, just maybe, there really is a wanna-be-wolf spider lurching evilly in some corner or crevice of my character apartment.

It could be there.

Waiting.

The spider equivalent of carpe diem.

So, I'm wearing my sneakers.

In my apartment.

At 10:44pm.

And for the forseeable future.

Then, socks.

And in other news: I love it. This article here is basically saying I get debilitating headaches because, yes, as anyone who knows me will tell you, I am thickheaded.