Colds, Termites, Goldfish, Target, Showerheads AKA: Living the Reality

I just finished my bag of pizza-flavored goldfish I treated myself to at Target earlier today after performing on a bar show to a sleepy audience.

That’s now.

Earlier today: I was at therapy.  I told Sam I’m having trouble doing basic things like cleaning my room, that I’ve been sick for the past three days unable to motivate myself to do anything except binge watch ‘The Night Of’ (so good). He said, “Well, maybe it hasn’t gotten bad enough yet for you to do anything about it.” “I dunno…I saw some spiders yesterday. I should probably clean.” “Well, you could just force yourself to, but of course that sucks.” “Yeah it really does.”

I got home after therapy and was greeted with not a couple spiders but at least 100 TERMITES!!! The lord hath spoken and he is not pleased, I thoughteth. I went into panic mode (After screaming, of course) and began individually spraying the termites with bleach, then hitting them with books (oh shoot, I wanted to read that one!) and throwing them into the toilet in little rolled up pieces of paper towel. Disgusting, yes. Did I have a choice, no? Called forth into action despite myself, just as Sam predicted.

The rest of the day became massacre plan for the grotesque insects as well as a full on cleaning craze (my landlord can’t see my place like this when I tell her about the problem and she comes to inspect).

I went to Target first. I loaded up my cart with a dustbuster, latex gloves, bleach, Swiffer wipes, paper towels, bug spray, and more. Of course the right bug spray wasn’t there. A young man, new on the job said they didn’t have that kind of insect repellant, but would you like a sample of this Starbucks drink? “What is it?” “I don’t know.” “OK.”

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I also bought one pair of underwear, ‘cause I also haven’t motivated myself to do laundry and pizza flavored goldfish, because I’m 12. And I made my way to the cash register.

“Find everything  OK?” It’s the same guy who couldn’t find me the right bug spray. “Umm…weren’t you the one just helping me?” “Oh right. The bug spray.” “Yeah…and what would you do if I didn’t find everything I was looking for…” “Ummm….” “Just shut up and give me the goldfish” (I didn’t say that).

I then had to go to Home Depot to get the termite spray. I remembered that my showerhead is broken too. So I asked a guy to help me find the right part for that. Of course when I got home, it’s wasn’t the right part, so now my shower head is still broken and it’s like taking a shower under a hose. At least the water is warm tho, I mean not complaining too much. And if I walk around with shampoo still in my hair, maybe it will smell nice.

I got home, sprayed the s*** out of my apt. And went into a panic of cleaning everything and throwing stuff out left and right that the bugs may have even briefly touched. Even furniture. ‘Cause ewww…

I fantasized briefly about having a man there to deal with all this down and dirty stuff. I come home and he’s there doing push-ups with sweat glistening on his chiseled jawline. But then I immediately snap back into reality and think, ‘Naw…then I’d also have to talk to him and I’m busy right now….doing what? I don’t know! Stop asking me difficult questions!”

One termite had crawled up onto my bedsheet so I grabbed the entire sheet and  flung it into my other room, “Get off!!!” I shouted. Then I realized I had no clean clothes, no clean sheets. So I went to my gritty launderette (no I don’t yet have a washer/dryer in my little one bedroom apt).  But yeah it’s the Beverly Hills one, so not so gritty, but still! I have to GO there!

The entire day felt like a struggle. And to top it off, I did a show at a bar where my jokes hovered above everyone’s heads like invisible clouds. I muscled through. Then found the pizza goldfish waiting for me in my car, a welcome snack after an uphill set after a challenging day. Came home, no termites. At least, no alive ones.

Now:

I sit on my unmade bed and write this. And I think, “Man…is this really living the dream?” No. Definitely not. Is it worth it? Who the hell knows. I’m alone. I’m tired. I’m frustrated. But….at least I have stories to tell. I’ll leave it at that.

Don’t worry. They’re calling the exterminators tomorrow. And fine. I’ll get back to cleaning, dammit. Shut up!

Yours,

Erica

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