misAdventures of Workmonkey 3.0

I just killed a roach. A big ass roach. The kind that just got out of jail after serving 5-to-10 for aggravated assault. It just spent the last 51 months lifting weights, jacking himself up to avenge the death of his cousin, who was shived while in juvie over in Jacksonville. This fucking roach was no joke. I was sitting in our white, oversized Ikea loveseat, with this very laptop in my lap, checking the night's baseball scores, when I heard a shuffling, like a deck of wet cards. I dismissed it as just another sound in our hundred-year-old apartment, the kind of sound you hear every other minute, whether it is a boiling pipe or cracking wood or shifting plaster. I turned around only when I heard a sound right by my ear. Turning, there it was. The roach. He had a tattoo on his left forearm, etched in blue and red ink: PuNK 4 Life. He looked me in the eye and said, "What the fuck is your problem, bitch?" I didn't answer. (And I didn't scream like a fourth-grade-girl at a N-Sync concert, no matter what Jill says). Instead, I calmly walked to the cupboard under my sink and got the new spray can of RAID I had just bought at Rite-Aid. This was the recent formula, guaran-fucking-teed to make roaches regret the day they entered your humble domicile. It even had a slim blue tube on it so you could direct the roach-crippling high-tech formula directly upon a specific part of the roach. I aimed for the tattoo on his forearm and pulled the trigger. This roach, however, was not going to go gently into that good night. He ran around my armchair like Ben Johnson on steroids, shooting to and fro as if he had mastered the art of invisibility. Undaunted, I erred on the side of death, coating the entire chair in a healthy dosing of roach-killing juice and walked away. Returning minutes later, I lifted a cushion to find this ex-con roach on his back, in the throes of paralyzation. Facing death, he look me in the eyes, and with his last breath, he muttered, "Go fuck yourself, human. See you on the flip-side." I used a Bounty-quicker-picker-upper to take his convulsing exo-skeleton to the trash. With one last motion, he flicked me off, and took his death like a man, or rather, a roach. I only hope I can be so brave one day.