Stay a while, friends, and I shall relate to you of The Battle of The Bug and how I ended up at home so early on a sunny Tuesday. I was sitting in deep contemplation (read: frustration) before a bank of Excel spreadsheets of a budgetary nature–a daunting puzzle, to be certain. I felt a mild discomfort in the environs of my left leg then suddenly realized that the strange crawling of my skin was literally something crawling *on* my skin. Thankfully I sit in a secluded back area so nobody saw me hike my pant leg nearly up to my knickers and also, nobody heard the strangled scream/yelp as I saw something about the size of a Palmetto Bug (aka, GIANT FLYING ROACH) skittering on my person.
Flailing ensued. Also, screeching and shuddering while the monstrosity crawled beneath the copier. I dragged the behemoth machine aside and proceeded to stomp on the bug, which skittered yet again, this time with a chilling sense of purpose and unfathomable speed. I stomped more. And more. I slammed it with a trash can. IT WOULD NOT DIE. I had noticed before WHEN IT WAS CRAWLING ON ME that it smelled peculiar in my office area–turns out it was TRAILING ITS UNHOLY STENCH over my person, the carpet around me, my recycling bin, and goodness knows what else. MORE STOMPING. I tend to count repetitive motions because I am me, and I lost track at fifteen–it was a mighty foe, and I will never forget its awful, hellish prowess. Finally, my desk area in wild disarray, adrenaline slamming through my veins, and my clothing covered in awful nightmare-stinkbug foulness, I watched it DIE. Suffice to say, my supervisor let me go home immediately and the proper people are being called in to address the situation. I’m assuming that means priests and exorcists, HazMat containment specialists, shamans, and people wielding blowtorches. I had to keep the windows open driving home. Clothes went straight into the washer, and I do not know that I have used that much cleanser in a shower, ever, in the history of all showers. I am itchy, but vindicated by the prospect of an afternoon of doing nothing but playing World of Warcraft, where at least the giant eldritch horrors I slay have the decency to drop loot. This is my story…let it be a cautionary tale of nothing terribly important, but awfully, awfully smelly.