Charlie and I are at an impasse.
In general, things are great. He likes to wax on about jazz, I’ve perfected the art of half-listening, half-reading The New Yorker. I like to rant wildly about the problems plaguing the publishing industry, he nods supportively while downing a bottle of red wine. Our delusions of grandeur are perfectly complimentary. We both survived about 16.5 Bikram yoga classes without breaking up over the sight of each other drenched in sweat and wracked with agony. We have wildly different tastes in Ben & Jerry’s but he always lets me get Late Night Snack. He doesn’t notice that when we fight, I masterfully and subtly and continuously change my argument so that no matter what happens, I ALWAYS WIN.
However, something is ripping our love apart.
And that something is bugs.
Yesterday, we were drifting around my apartment when I looked at the wall above my bed and there, with a jolt of unimaginable horror, I saw the most disgusting bug of my life. It was like a centipede gone rogue. Its trillions of legs were incredibly long, and its brown, snakelike body had more curves than Bristol Palin. And it was creeping—no, gyrating—over my bed, poised to crawl over my face while I slept, biting my eyes into a raw, swollen casserole before slithering into my mouth and breeding in my stomach.
Now listen, I try to be a pretty decent girlfriend. But when it comes to bugs, I’m willing to use every undesirable girlfriend trait in the world to make the Man kill them. I will be clingy, high-maintenance, overly demanding, incredibly emotional, passive-aggressive, cold, oversensitive, pushy, and manipulative, and I don’t care if Charlie never speaks to me again, I NEED THAT BUG’S HEAD ON A PLATTER.
Unfortunately, Charlie is willing to use every undesirable boyfriend trait in the world to AVOID dealing with bugs. In his own words, “I feel no shame being a coward and a huge pussy.” I’m not saying he screamed when he saw a cockroach, but he totally did, hahahahahahahaha, and he won’t admit it but you heard it here first.
So when I started screaming at Charlie to kill that multipeded monstrosity, did he spring onto his white stallion and charge into battle to save his lady? No! He started, shivered violently, and tried to escape to the kitchen. I screamed at him again: “IT HAS SO MANY LEGS IT’S PROBABLY SO FAST!” and I think it heard us because it started to move. As if it couldn’t get any grosser, the thing was actually slow, as though its superlong legs were too spindly and weak to support its bloated body, ugh. While I pushed the reluctant Charlie toward the creature, he reached for my August Vogue and yelled, “Say hi to the bug, Sarah Jessica Parker!” and I screamed, “YOU CAN’T USE MY VOGUE!” and shoved a roll of paper towels in his face, and he jumped onto the bed and smashed the bug against the wall and wiped up its remains and flushed it down the toilet, as I writhed in horror and nausea and felt the first creeping stings of post-traumatic stress syndrome.
So all in all, he was a great boyfriend. But I don’t know how sustainable this is. The man clearly has bug issues. If I ever see a mouse and he doesn’t smash it with a frying pan within 0.5 seconds like Aleksandr Petrovsky in that one episode of SATC, but screams and tries to run away and leave me, I will start a charge account at Dior with his credit card, I don’t care if that’s the cardinal sin of girlfriendom. I will be the most high-maintenance girl the world has ever seen until that mouse is gone forever. But I don’t want to know whether or not it’s dead, I’d feel too guilty, I’m a vegetarian.
PS: When I went outside to steal internet so that I could publish this post, A GIANT CICADA FLEW INTO ME. I THOUGHT THOSE THINGS ONLY CAME OUT EVERY SEVENTEEN YEARS. THIS IS THE WORST.