Arachnophobia at 2:14 AM

Another sleepless night. Another forced technological intervention. Facebook at 2:14 am, hoping to fall asleep on the banalities of others' lives, when suddenly - a spider - black, but subtly back lit by the spill from the laptop monitor against a dull, yet rough white wall. Jesus! Arachnophobia past mid-night. Surely, there must be a law against this kind of behavior somewhere, but not here, heck no, this is Hollywood, man. We snack on spider tissue because we are cool and need to tell everyone how much. The desk lamp is turned on and renders a little orange warmth to the cold blue light of the laptop.

What are you doing, man? You are not Peter Fuckin' Parker. Run around, make some noise, wake the neighbors, call the super. Sanity versus Exhibitionism. Front row tickets. I fight the urge to let the battle ensue in that brilliant light. Meanwhile, the poor bastard is running towards Lennon and his lyrics of Imagine on the wall. Light doesn't affect his motion I noticed. Maybe the sucker is blind. Maybe it's a blind spider. Or maybe, all spiders are blind. They are supposed to be. Not evolved enough. If this was taking place centuries later and I were just telekinesising the fuck outta this blog post, maybe the spider would stop, do a steamy little number for me, sing in a deep Kathleen Turner voice and take a bow, but not tonight - this is just a post-modern saga, not some futuristic Phillip F. Dick novel.

The ten count is over. Exhibitionism is lying face down in a pool of its own blood somewhere in my subconsciousness. I walk over to the bathroom, trying not to shake for my companion, but once out of sight, my dirty little shaking hands tear a piece of TP off - a clinical move, reeking with mercenary efficiency. I walk back - an epitome of Nihilistic Buddhism, TP in one hand, silence hovering over my lips like a mistress at a funeral and nothing but the creature's reflections in my two eyes. It's almost over now I tell myself. We look at one another. It stops, for what can only be melodramatic effect. "Breathe, muthafucka. Enjoy the last five seconds of your miserable, mountaineering domestic life." Strong words for a monster-slayer. Pulp! It's done. Just like adolescent sex - anticipation far outweighing the act. I crush it between my thumb and forefinger a couple of times, just to be sure.

I bury the fucker in my trashcan, where rest countless other household bugs. If these goddamn animals have afterlives, they are bitching about me right now over some dirty Tecates and mouthfuls of crunchy pork tacos. Ouch! That must have hurt. Sanity is suddenly coughing blood as Exhibitionism punches him under the belt while I type this out for other insomniacs awake at this hour. As they say, it ain't over till the fat lady squeals and we all know Exhibitionism is one large bitch.