We slept pretty late last night. Babe had a work event that dragged on till 2+am, while I was working on Project Declutter. 2 bags full, as of now. I aim to fill up more of the large IKEA plastic bags as I go along. Wasn't feeling particularly sleepy even though the little hand on the clock had touched 2.
By 2:30am, I had single-handedly massacred about 30 cockroaches. Maybe 3 large ones, 10 teens and the remaining ones which contributed to the majority number are infants/toddlers. Weapon at hand: Toilet paper (loads of it,for squishing) and a bottle of Bygone, for the adult roaches. We NEED to get the pest controller guy to come and seriously end this problem. I had just about enough of seeing baby roaches scurrying from one end of the room to the other.
I go: *squish squish squish*
And we have: 30+ dead roaches.
All 30+ of them were tossed into the toilet bowl and flushed away to oblivion. I don't know about you, but I have this sick satisfaction of killing roaches because they fcuking irritate the hell out of me. Not that our place is dirty. We have maids cleaning up the place almost on a weekly basis. I have even eliminated the hair-on-floor problem, so the floors are spanking clean. So seriously, WHERE.IS.THE.EFFING.NEST?!
*grrrrr*
Why do I get this being-mocked-at feeling that I can never rid them off despite my daily effort of roach-massacring?
Maybe she's right.
I am a survivor. I am like a cockroach, you just can't get rid of me.
- Madonna
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