The Daily Booger

For those of you new to planet Earth, possibly having just arrived from some other planet like Mars, Neptune, or North Dakota, I hate spiders. Really, really hate them.

While in Texas, I took it upon myself to purchase a shirt for the formal occasion of breathing on Easter. We weren’t doing anything fancy or out of the ordinary on Easter, but apparently the blonde population of the Thomas household (namely, my girlfriend) came to unanimous consent that I should a) get a shirt they liked, b) wear it on Easter, or c) they would pout at me.

While on the shopping escapade, I visited all of one store and actually bought two shirts, since I don’t have many and, practically, I could use another.

So I came home with two new shirts. One (the blonde-approved one) I hung up in my closet, the other I kind of laid out over the night stand in the middle of my room and forgot to hang up. For two weeks. Don’t ask, I just forgot.

This evening my mom noticed it and, apparently, hadn’t viewed it yet. So she picked it up, examined it briefly, and left it on my bed. I figured that, since it was now in the way of my going to bed, I should hang it up or something already. So I picked it up and clipped off the tag and looked over it for stickers, removing one or two. Then I lay it down flat spread out on my bed and examined it to ensure it was ready to be worn. I have to carefully examine all my clothing before I wear it because, once I deem it wearable and hang it up/put it in a drawer, I will never notice any tags on it. I have worn shirts with a sticker on the sleeve for a full week before someone pointed out to me that I looked like I had just shoplifted from the clothing department at Mervins and was attempting to flee on foot.

Anyway… After I quickly inspected the front of my shirt, I flipped half of it over to inspect the other side. After checking out my computer quickly to make sure something was doing what it was supposed to do (or possibly to make sure something wasn’t doing what it wasn’t supposed to do), I turned my attention back to my shirt.

And there sat a spider.

On my shirt.

And it had clearly been there the entire time. It was giving me that “Haha, sucker, you were holding your shirt while I was on it and I could’ve walked onto your hand — and what’re you gonna do about it, huh?” look.

I sat, staring at the one-centimeter long eight-legged freak of nature for half a minute before reaching for three tissues (you have to have as much protection as possible) and killing it. I don’t really care so much that the spider was on my shirt, walking around and touching it, I’m just thankful it’s gone now, and I’ll cheerfully be wearing the shirt to church tomorrow despite the fact that I’ll be touching a shirt that a spider also touched.

I am, of course, kidding. I destroyed the shirt with a blowtorch.

And I suppose it goes without saying that spider events come in pairs. I saw a spider in the shower today, that had been hiding against the tile grout line against the floor on the opposite side of the shower. It came out half way through my shower and ran in a full circle before going back to it’s hiding place.

I blowtorched the shower too.