Die. Roach. Die.

They have us surrounded. There is no going back now. The great extermination must commence.

A week ago they visited the kitchen, zipping from shadow to shadow; their chitinous little backs taunting​ me as they scurried past. 

Then I noticed them by the toilet and in the closet, small and large. At times they fell from some high place and frantically slid down the wall or casually landed and stood, antennae shifting, hairy legs rustling, disgusting me completely. The frequency of their presence growing and grinding on my nerves.

When they began to emerge in twos and threes, gleefully dancing about on our counter tops, my father bought a special paste to lure and poison them. I applied said paste and within a day their twitching bodies were littered across our cream carpet.

Tomorrow the fogger comes. Tomorrow we will twist the knife with which the roach hoarde has been impaled. Let them fall that we may sweep their corpses in to sweet roach hell. 

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