Late.
The past eight hours I have been at work and have had too much of an adrenaline high to think much. Basically I was cranky, sleepy, and wanted to pass out. But first I had to get home. After the laborious drive, drudging up three flights of stairs was no fun, especially when a larger-than-life moth greeted me at the third landing. This creature was larger than the biggest butterfly I have ever seen, and spazzing out around the light.
Unphased, I prepare my ritual bowl of cereal and tall glass of water. This is when I notice the enourmous bulk of mail fastened to the fridge with a strong magnet. Yes. Bills and credit card companies telling me I'm pre-approved for their latest whatcha-jimmy-nigget-linger-danger credit card with an unlimited credit line. No wonder so many people are in debt. But I digress. Among the mish-mosh of mail that I typically send to the shredder is a gem. A letter from UCF. A letter from the Nicholsen School of Communication at UCF. Elated, I tear it open and find that I have been accepted into the Public Relations and Advertising program. Woo hoo! Mini-adrenaline rush.
Post-mini-celebration, I go into my room to settle in for some myspace lurking and catching up on the latest PR gossip on the livejournal board. Well, apparently the animal kingdom had other plans for me tonight. There on the far wall of my impeccably clean room is a roach crawling down on the side of my bed. That's right. A bonafide Gregory Kafka. Forget the cereal. My normal reaction would be to emit some sort of girly squeal. But tonight was different. Might have been the overstimulating night at work. May have been the lack of sleep and nutrition my body has so graciously endured in the past weeks. May have been the fact that I almost stroked out tonight at work while watching the Florida/Auburn game while the Tigers scored a TD in the last 5 seconds.
But I digress again.
Setting all girly reactions aside, I set out upon my bed in Rambo mode. Solo cup in hand, NY Times in the other...I was gonna catch this bastard goddamnit. I had worked too hard tonite to give up my bed for fear of some insignificant bug. After chasing the little Kafka under my bed, into the toe of a pair of stilettos and under a pile of dirty work clothes, I seized my prey. But I was kind. Inside every roach is a Gregory Kafka. So I set it free on the landing.
Really, Gregory wasn't the stiletto type. Maybe him and the moth can become friends.
And maybe I should go to sleep.
Unphased, I prepare my ritual bowl of cereal and tall glass of water. This is when I notice the enourmous bulk of mail fastened to the fridge with a strong magnet. Yes. Bills and credit card companies telling me I'm pre-approved for their latest whatcha-jimmy-nigget-linger-danger credit card with an unlimited credit line. No wonder so many people are in debt. But I digress. Among the mish-mosh of mail that I typically send to the shredder is a gem. A letter from UCF. A letter from the Nicholsen School of Communication at UCF. Elated, I tear it open and find that I have been accepted into the Public Relations and Advertising program. Woo hoo! Mini-adrenaline rush.
Post-mini-celebration, I go into my room to settle in for some myspace lurking and catching up on the latest PR gossip on the livejournal board. Well, apparently the animal kingdom had other plans for me tonight. There on the far wall of my impeccably clean room is a roach crawling down on the side of my bed. That's right. A bonafide Gregory Kafka. Forget the cereal. My normal reaction would be to emit some sort of girly squeal. But tonight was different. Might have been the overstimulating night at work. May have been the lack of sleep and nutrition my body has so graciously endured in the past weeks. May have been the fact that I almost stroked out tonight at work while watching the Florida/Auburn game while the Tigers scored a TD in the last 5 seconds.
But I digress again.
Setting all girly reactions aside, I set out upon my bed in Rambo mode. Solo cup in hand, NY Times in the other...I was gonna catch this bastard goddamnit. I had worked too hard tonite to give up my bed for fear of some insignificant bug. After chasing the little Kafka under my bed, into the toe of a pair of stilettos and under a pile of dirty work clothes, I seized my prey. But I was kind. Inside every roach is a Gregory Kafka. So I set it free on the landing.
Really, Gregory wasn't the stiletto type. Maybe him and the moth can become friends.
And maybe I should go to sleep.