Learning to cohabitate…

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…with roaches. Dear god I hate roaches. Big ones. Small ones. Some as big as a reasonable sized rat that has probably doing steroids and too many bench presses at gym, bro.

If you follow me on Twitter, you’ll have seen my requests pleas about how to get rid of the pesky fuckers without burning down my apartment because deposits and references are needed when you can eventually afford to live somewhere where you can’t see your fridge from your bed.

I tried it all.

I sprayed Doom, DiRoach and every other surface spray available in my local Pick n Pay (pro tip: when spraying the doorway above your head, don’t look up.)

I got in a fumigator who sprayed everything (everything) three times.

I put down dried lavender and lavender essential oil.

I sacrificed a few birds and evoked age old rituals.

Nothing.

Fucking.

Works.

Because when you live in a complex as big and as old as mine, your neighbours sex noises are your base line and their roaches are your flatmates. You’re stuck together like Google search results and that Myspace profile whose password you can’t remember. The only thing that you can do is to learn to not cry every time you see one live together.

I’d suggest you leave them a little (really little, they have small eyes and no hands) agreement:

They can get the bathtub between 11pm and 6am and they can’t come in when I’m showering because rude. Scuttling across the floor is only acceptable if it’s done behind my back and for the love of god please don’t run up the walls when The Guy is over (I’m still trying to impress him and screaming tends to startle him). If you really have to hang out in the cupboards, you can chill with my shoes, not my clothes because I’d rather stand on you then feel you run up my arm.

And the very least you can do if you aren’t going to help me pay this rent, Dear Roaches, is buy a bottle of wine once in a while.

Header image: 20th Century Fox / Via Buzzfeed via sodahead.com

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