After the terror of trapping Roachy yesterday I certainly wasn’t up to the task of finishing him off. I exhausted all of my strength trapping him, why would I want to get close enough to kill him too?
I handed the situation off to my boyfriend, who opted to “set him free”, which entailed transferring Roachy to a cup (which I now want to throw away) and throwing him off the second floor fire escape. He landed on the cobblestones below, and as of 11:15 pm, he was still there, though he did kick a leg out the last time we checked.
I had almost recovered from the trauma when I went to go take out my contacts in the bathroom, and saw a little black bug crawling around by the door. I squealed, and proceeded to climb the banister to the third floor like a monkey. Thankfully a couple of my housemates were alerted to the problem, and I let someone else deal with smashing the offensive roach with a shoe.
Which was probably a good thing, because this one was much more active—one girl thought it was the same roach that crawled through her room the night before, which she sprayed with hairspray in an attempt to paralyze it. He got away, but moving much more slowly.
All in all, death by the instant smack of a shoe seemed much more humanitarian than a combo of hairspray-toxin paralysis and my boyfriend’s concept of “setting it free”, by which he apparently meant into free-fall.
In my current paranoia, all I can think about is creepy crawling roaches. I feel like I have to constantly look at my feet to make sure there aren’t any roaches underfoot.
I guess its time to call the exterminator. Or move.