Happily, the Internet tells me the bites only cause temporary, localized pain.

You know it’s been a pretty lousy 12 hours when your annual exam with the ob/gyn does not qualify as the worst part of the day. Even when you add in the fact that the exam wasn’t performed by your beloved, known-for-her-brevity-and-gentleness nurse practitioner, but instead by a nursing student. As in a person who has only STUDIED such things, rather than actually NURSED them. 

Hours later, I must commend myself for not immediately bolting from the room when she entered, all 21 virginal years of her. I dealt with the stress like I always do: by cracking questionably amusing self-deprecating jokes. I tell you, nothing beats the satisfaction of making a woman holding a speculum chuckle. Except everything else in the entire world.

But no. That wasn’t the worst part of the day. No, indeedy. The worst part of the day? This:

Allow me to introduce you to the house centipede that skitters his way up and down the walls of our garage at night, as soon as the temperature goes above 60 degrees. Actually, there are several of them, of varying sizes and total appendages, and all equally revolting. They freeze as soon as you put the garage light on, as if they can somehow blend into the walls. If I wasn’t so busy screaming at the sight of them, I would seriously consider discussing the art of camouflage with them. They’d really be better off finding another wall, one that properly blends with their BILLION LEGS and MONSTROUS ANTENNAE. Perhaps a wall in ANOTHER UNIVERSE.

I know I kept saying that I couldn’t wait for summer, but you know what? I can wait.

A lot.

Like forever. 

Times infinity.

The end.