I drove home from Winston-Salem late last night after a rambunctious dinner with my family. I had to pee pretty desperately about an hour in, but was determined to avoid stopping. I persevered, but barely.
Running down the hallway, I unbutton my jeans, scramble for the light switch and sit down with a smile. And suddenly, from behind the white shower curtain:
I scream. Or rather, I let loose a horrible screeching moan as I continue to pee (there is ZERO possibility of a mid-stream stop) and reach my flip-flopped foot out to kick at the scurrying beast. I miss and it darts under the bath mat. Still seated, I stomp the mat, whimpering.
“Please die.” I stomp. “Please. Die.”
It runs from the mat, a hundred squirmy legs moving in sync. I pull my shoe from my foot and slam it down. Lifting the flip flop gingerly, I grimace at the tiny legs and goop smeared on white tile, use a sleeve to wipe the sweat from my forehead, and reach for the toilet paper.