Yesterday there was a spider on the ceiling, and my mom, brother and I could not settle on an appropriate course of action. My mother and I spent about five minutes trying to get it to come down, and Alex was bored with the proceedings and wanted to go play Xbox.
“Just leave it,” he said, rolling his eyes.
My mom nodded. “It’s too far up. We can’t reach it. Besides, we’ve already ruined its day by pelting it with wet paper towels. Let’s leave him be.”
“That’s exactly why we should not leave him be!” I said. “He’ll come after us! He’ll want revenge! I can’t sleep knowing there’s a spider on the ceiling, I just can’t do it!”
“You’re so dramatic,” my mom said. “If he’s going to go after anyone, it’s going to be me; I’m the one that actually managed to hit him.”
“I don’t know how you did it,” said Alex, “but you somehow managed to appease and insult her all in the same sentence.”
“My room’s closer,” I insisted. “If you were a spider, would you rather exact your revenge on the first person you come across or embark on a Lord of the Rings-style trek across the entire house to get the real perpetrator?”
But they both decided my argument was stupid, and we all went on with our lives, making popcorn and watching The Voice. (Fun fact: I’m rooting for Michelle.) A few hours later we were moseying around the house when my mother discovered the spider, on the floor, booking it in the direction of MY ROOM. I immediately had it slain (read: I squealed a lot until my dad humanely carried it outside so it could be free) and my mom said, shocked, “You were totally right. It was coming for you.”
They always do. My reputation with spiders precedes me.