Out, out, damn roach!

It appears that there's a specialized subspecies of American cockroach living in my condo. Mind you, this is only the second one I've seen in three years, so it's not as if I'm plagued with them.

At work, they're on the floor. When I go for my weekend walks, they're on the ground. Other places I've been, they're on the floor or ground. In my home, they are climbing things four feet above the floor.

A couple years ago, I discovered one crawling up the handle of my refrigerator (the side toward the fridge door, not toward the room) when I nearly put my hand on it. Last night, one was on the neckline of a shirt hanging in my closet. ("That's an odd piece of fuzz," I thought, then, "Wait a minute. Fuzz doesn't have antennae.")

After an adrenaline burst, followed by ten seconds of spirited stomping on my shirt (which is now in the laundry pile to get rid of dirt from my shoes and the floor, not to mention bug guts), I was no longer relaxed and ready to sleep. This was disappointing, as I had nearly fallen asleep on the couch around 6:30 p.m. -- in the middle of a Pinky & the Brain DVD, of all things. It was one of my favorite episodes, too (the one about the Kicky-Sack Sack Kicker factory's annual company picnic in Secaucus), so I must have been tired.

Damn roach.