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I Have Killed, And I Will Kill Again

I am just going to lay this one on the line right now: I am a murderer, and I don't care. 

Summer is my killing time. You see, I am terrified of insects. And if I am cornered by a cockroach or a spider, then only one of us will walk out of this alive. (And that's me, btw).

I apologise to PETA, to the RSPCA and to anyone else who acts on animal rights, and as a vegetarian I would really rather not kill another being.

But those damn creepy crawlies... I can't deal.

Come October every year, the delicious smell of jasmine hits the air and most people are tweeting and profile updating with their "summer is coming" joy. I, meanwhile, am starting to get nervous. By December, noises I hear by the balcony door strike terror in my heart as I know, I JUST KNOW, it's something COMING IN. I smell jasmine, I feel the heat of the sun, I basically think of armies of cockroaches marching like White Walkers towards my windows.

And the car, oh the car. Each journey begins with a terrified inspection -- especially if the car has been parked -- insert terrifying music sting here --under a tree.

Which is when the battle starts with my beloved husband.

You see he is a rescuer. A jar and paper wielder. And worse. He's a "live and let live" type of guy. He can sit on the couch with a huntsman on the wall RIGHT ABOVE HIM. My mother can, too.

I know, right? WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE AND WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH MY FAMILY?

As soon as I hear the patter of (very) tiny feet on my floorboards, I'm brandishing a thong, a can of insect spray or a cat, or all three. "Sick him, Floyd," I yell, as my confused moggie tries to find the source of my terror like the good boy he is. And I don't back down until, well, until Floyd and I can be the last ones standing.

I hate myself for it but I just can't get close enough to rescue them. I just can't. Even as I write this my skin is crawling.

When my husband is at home though, the story is very different. It goes like this:

Me: "Aaaaghdhdhdfjkgsdfdjkfgdsufgdskufbsdjkgsfjkgsksdjfbg!" *gets on chair*

Him: "It's just a cockroach/spider. Move out of the way I can't see the TV."

Me: *hyperventilating in to paper bag* "Please get rid of it, please..."

Him: "For God's sake. It's just a cockroach/spider. Wait til the ads."

Me: *gentle weeping* *running hand through hair in case one is stuck in there*

Me again: *loud whimpering* *grabs Tupperware and paper so husband can deal with danger* *climbs back on chair*

Husband: "Sigh"

He then, of course, gets the cockroach / spider out of house (and not only that but into a safe environment away from the house itself, with a three-course meal, a new identity and an apology)  and is a hero among men (and insects).

I went into the bathroom the other night and had a battle royale with a large spider that just appeared out of thin air at 3am. It involved me screeching, swearing, sweating and using an Ajax spray bottle in two ways to get rid of it. I was trying to be quiet  and an adult and "deal with it myself". It wasn't pretty.

If he sees me clutching a can of insect spray my husband isn't happy. I mean, the man is delusional. He calls it, ha, "poison", says it's -- sorry for laughing -- "dangerous" to spray in the house, that spraying it all over the doors and windows is "overkill".

I mean, clearly he's insane.

I have a confession to make -- sometimes I wait til he's in bed or at work and then I surface spray the balcony door and windows. And the car doors.

And when I say sometimes I mean often.

I do that because I feel it acts like a shield, protecting me from the creepy crawlies who want to get in and hang out above my husband's head and party, and protecting them from me and my crazed killing sprees. I see the spray as a line of defence they won't cross. "Hey, fellow White Walkers, this chick's made an uncrossable boundary from Mortein... we will need to find another home to attack. Retreat. Retreat!" is exactly how I see it playing out in my head.

I think of it as a community service.

Does that make me a psychopath?

Feature Image: Getty