Kimberlee K.

So there I was. It was just before 7:00 a.m. on the morning of my sister’s baby shower.

My hair was in a bun on the top of my head, ready to be washed, my kitchen table was covered in cookies and flower arrangements, and my dress was laid out, ready to be put on.

I stretched my arms over my head and trudged my way into the bathroom to go pee before I got in the shower. I rubbed my eyes, going through my to do list in my head, and then I saw it.

The cockroach I’d been hunting for the last few days.

It made its first appearance one night while I was watching TV, scurrying across the wood floor as I looked on in horror. I leapt to my feet, looking for a weapon. I am an independent woman. I said to myself. I am a cockroach slayer. A warrior. This is my house and you will pay for disturbing my peace. I missed when I swung and it disappeared under a dresser.

But now here he was again. A pervert, standing at my bathroom door watching me pee, daring me to make a move.

I had been awake for about four minutes, but I immediately turned into Olympic champion Alyson Felix, running across my apartment at full speed towards the kitchen to get my roach spray. Then I sprayed about half the bottle at the cockroach, delighting in his misery like a psychopath.

Swaths of hair stuck to my face as I panted.

Then he started running, willing himself to survive as if he was the last of his kind. I whispered every expletive I’d ever learned, my eyes surely deranged as I sprinted again across my apartment for my weapon of choice: my broom.

I tip toed back into the bathroom and found the cockroach huddled behind my door. Perhaps he’s trying to die in peace, I thought, right before throttling my broom at him. The head of my broom snapped off and he latched onto the low hanging strap of my bathrobe.

At this point I was filled with adrenaline, angry that I broke my broom, half convinced I was still asleep, and curious if the grunts and bangs would trigger my upstairs neighbors to call the police.

The bathrobe felt like blatant disrespect.

I wished greatly for a flamethrower. And for cockroaches to have vocal cords so I could hear it scream when I set it ablaze.

Then I ran to get my Swiffer.

In my head, I was a highly trained martial artist, gliding the multipurpose mop through the air with precision and grace, a killer on the prowl. But if security camera footage were to exist it would show me standing in my underwear, staring at the corner of my bathroom like a possessed child in a horror movie, working up the confidence to swing while saying, please don’t let my Swiffer break, please don’t let my Swiffer break.

I landed my attack. But when I lifted the bare Swiffer pad I found the cockroach reaching a leg up, as if this was the 2000’s action movie Never Back Down and he was determined to continue the fight. I slapped my Swiffer down again, whispering die in a tone I can only describe as Voldemort, and then I carried the corpse to the trash with a pair of gloves.

Great workout! My FitBit said.

And so I turned on the shower and continued my morning.