It's funny when you get to see figurative language come to life.. For instance: I might have once written in some corny poem, years ago, how a pregnant roach was a harbinger of chaos... and then the other night I witnessed a very egg-laden roach traverse its way around the pull knob of the dresser in my living room, only to evade my attempt at squashing it by ducking into the crevice beneath the drawer. I knew then, I just knew on this gut level, that this stupid little bug was going to unburden itself of its progeny in my effing underwear drawer. Oh yes, I seem to have an intuition for the maternal habits of Le Roach.
Well, days have passed and I searched in vain for the egg sac, for the mama roach, for any means of stopping the inevitable. I even placed a toxic little bait station beneath the right foot of the short-legged dresser, hoping perhaps the roach dame would be jonesing for that succulent poison and indulge prior to birthing. Clearly, no such luck as there has been a baby roach exodus from some impossible-to-pinpoint place in/under/behind the bureau. If only I knew where the epicenter of life was... I could destroy them all(wow, that sounds very evil). Alas, no matter how much I play around through my clothing, unearthing mismatched socks, threadbare undies, long-abandoned garments, I cannot find the source of the hatchlings. Even after having removed every article completely into another drawer(separate dresser).
As I sit here now, after midnight, my laptop computer perched atop the futon that flanks the dresser, the micro roaches become bold, their circadian rhythms dictating nocturnal adventure. The computer is like some kind of homing beacon to them, and they (with seeming reverence and aw) one-by-one make a pilgrimage to its orange humming monolithic base. It is the mecca for wee roaches and I am the wrathful god, sitting here with one hand on a borishly-squared post-it note pad, ready to smite them. So far the death count for the evening stands at 9 (as evidenced by 9 little brown blemishes on the bright yellow post-it pad/tool of death).
My mind reels trying to do a virtual census on the roach populatin currently in this apartment. How many roaches emerge from one egg sack? I realize I could google this to know for sure, but I am terrified of the possible answer. I like to imagine there is a superbly finite number in this particular dresser eco-system (like, say, 25 babies) so that I can be sure to kill all of them lest any grow to be pregnant teens in the ghetto that is/was(and likely never to be used by me again) my pants drawer.