I Killed My First Cockroach And I No Longer Fear God

They say there are two things that truly make you a New Yorker: the first time you see someone peeing in the subway station and the first time you kill a cockroach. Look, New York City is an island of trash that smells like pee and is full of people who seem to lack common courtesy. But weirdly, it was starting to grow on me. I got off the train the other day and while walking through Grand Central Station and out on the way to my apartment, I was looking around like damn, maybe this city isn’t so bad. I was actually SMILING walking the streets of New York City like an escaped mental patient.

But pride comes before a fall.

Last night at 11:02pm, I was in my bathroom washing my face like I do every single night around this time (skin care gang shit). I turned around to throw my cotton round out (toner gang shit) and out of the corner of my eye, I saw something move in the northeast corner of my shower. I think deep down, I knew exactly what it was from even the slightest peripheral glance, but I immediately shut my eyes, not wanting to believe my good day was about to go down the drain so fast. My blood ran cold. There was a pit in my stomach. I swallowed, and opened my eyes.

There, in my very own bathroom, was a cockroach. A biiiig motherfucker, too. No exaggeration, he was probably 11 feet long. Kidding. But at least three inches, which is FAR too big for any respectable bug. And the fucker was moving rapidly. I just shuddered thinking about it. I do not care for the way they move. Immediately I ran screaming into my roommate’s room and woke her up. Half asleep, she fumbled under the sink for the Raid which we had THANKFULLY purchased our first week in the apartment, naively hoping never to use it.

Screaming at the top of my lungs, I sprayed half a can of roach spray on this thing. But it would. Not. Die. They say cockroaches can survive a nuclear apocalypse, and I never believed it until last night. I’ve since been told that you’re supposed to step on them to kill them, but if you think my sensory-avoidant ass is going to make that CRUNCH sound/feeling when I’ll probably actively vomit if I do, you’re fucking wrong. Finally, after a full minute of yelling/spraying, the roach was on his back in my bathtub, and in a moment of panic, I turned on the shower to try to drown him.

Thankfully, this worked. My roommate and I stared at the corpse of the giant cockroach in disgust until it slowly, agonizingly dawned on us that we had to DO something with its body. I don’t want to talk about this part. Honestly, I don’t remember what happened. I blacked out. But let’s just say it involved rubber gloves, a red solo cup, and a fork. Then I bleached the tub, the walls of the shower, the toilet, the sink, the floor of the bathroom, the hallway, the kitchen floor, I lost my fucking mind cleaning because the fact that a COCKROACH was in MY HOME was too much. I couldn’t sleep until the entire apartment was fucking spotless, and even then, I was disturbed.

I woke up this morning thinking about the chaotic events of the night before. Got ready in a daze, walked to the train in a daze, didn’t even blink when I almost got ran over by a cab, saw a rat at my subway stop and didn’t even jump. That’s when it dawned on me: I no longer fear anything. I no longer fear death. I hate bugs so much and cockroaches even more so, but I murdered that bastard in cold blood. I can do ANYTHING.

That said, I’d really prefer to never have to kill one again, so if anyone wants to date just to be my designated midnight bug killer, let a bitch know.