Why I Burned My House Down

We just got back from a family camping trip, and by camping, I mean we stayed in a cabin with air conditioning, a bathroom and a refrigerator stocked with cheese, chocolate and wine. I like to rough it when I get in tune with nature. I'm a baller like that.

Anyway, I was just sorting through all of the wet towels and shorts my son had crapped through when a friendly little stowaway crawled out of our dirty laundry: a spider. Um, hell-to-the-no, mother fucker. Your ass ain't got to go home but it sho nuff ain't staying here.

Actor portrayal of actual events.
As the spider leisurely crawled out of a pile of our dirty drawers, my daughter saw it and said, "Mama! Remember that book Be Nice to Spiders? We should save him!"

Me: You're right. I will pick him up and take him outside.

The Quiet Contemplator: OK!

(Insert TQC's instant loss of interest and her leaving the room. Then insert me crushing the spider to death with a shoe and sending him to heaven, because I am surely not letting some immigrant spider hole up in my casa while I sleep.)

RIP, spider. I hated you well for the short time I knew you.

Warning: a spider was harmed in the making of this post. Why? Because fuck spiders, that's why.


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