Kamikaze

I was just attacked. Not once, but twice. By a cockroach the size of my thumb and the sucker could fly (My father so quaintly refers to them as Palmetto Bugs - dude, a cockroach is a cockroach).

I was just minding my own business, tying up the kitchen garbage bag, when evidently I interrupted this monstrosity's late night snack. It tried to scale my arm. I did what any sane person would do.

I screamed my fool head off and waved my arms wildly in the air.

Melbourne of course came running to see just how badly I was bleeding, because with a scream like that you just assume there's blood I guess. While convulsing and writhing, I reported on the initial attack and he asked where the assailant had gone. How was I supposed to know? I flung it toward the heavens. (That's foreshadowing for those of you playing along).

He finished the garbage for me and took it outside. I went to the restroom to scald my hand and arm in hot water and lye.

Then, I stupidly returned to the scene of the crime.

I was so shaken up that I pulled the entire roll of paper towels off the holder. Melbourne returned from outside and started helping me roll the paper towels back up.

And that's when !@^&$*# cockroach dive bombed me. It must have been on the light fixture because it came from above. It landed in my hair and dropped to my shoulder. More screaming and flailing of limbs ensued. I then ripped my shirt from my body and continued flailing right through to the living room.

Luckily Melbourne found the assailant and disposed of it in a manner most befitting.

Stupid cockroach.