Ouch.

Whoever said cockroaches can't hurt you needs to come take a look at the bruise on my leg.

Last night around 10:30 I was minding my own business, about to go to bed. I get up from my desk, turn around, and see a cockroach that must have weighed at LEAST as much as I do but looked much, much stronger. Like any young, responsible, college educated woman, I screamed and climbed onto my bed, begging my housemates in the living room to come save me. After about 10 minutes of no one coming to rescue me, I got up enough nerve to try to trap it so I could go demand aid. The only empty container I could find was a metal heart-shaped tin my sister gave me for valentines day. The cockroach was crawling on top of the lid to the bin where I keep my dirty clothes (we have to keep our dirty clothes in giant tupperware-like bins or else the mice eat our underwear. Seriously). The lid was on the ground, with a plastic grocery sack on it, and the cockroach was crawling on top of the bag. I put the tin over the roach and the bag, and then stacked two books, "Kosovo: A Short History" and "Bosnia: A Short History", on top of it. I should point out that both books are HUGE and very poorly named. For good measure, I threw my sketchbook and two pairs of shoes on top of the books. Then I went for help.

Anna was in the living room, and leaped to action after being briefed of the situation. We then spent about 10 minutes staring at the tin, trying to decide how we were going to dispose of the intruder. Anna was of the opinion that I could lift the tin and she could smash him to death with a hole puncher, but I was doubtful of this solution for several reasons. One: I have heard that cockroaches are hard to smash, and this one certainly seemed like a formidable opponent, two: I didn't want to lift the tin, three: I didn't want to have cockroach guts on my laundry bin or, worse, my carper, and four: I was about 87% sure that if I lifted the tin, the roach would fly or crawl around and Anna and I would both scream and panic and he would find a way to burrow into my underwear drawer or, worse, my brain.

I should point out that Sarah was on the phone with her boyfriend, Jeff, this entire time. I, of course, demanded that Jeff come save us, and he flat out REFUSED. What is the point of any of us having a boyfriend if he doesn't even come out to meet our needs in times of crisis?? Yes, it is 10:30 PM. Yes, you live 20 minutes away. What is the problem? Anna insisted that we were strong women who could handle the situation ourselves, but I was doubtful. I'm a pretty big fan of traditional gender roles, because I like babies, cooking, cleaning, and not opening doors or paying for meals. I have always thought that "bug killing" was in the "manly chore" category, along with yard work, taking out the trash, paying for everything, and defending my honor. If the men in my life will do that, I will be happy to bake scones and give birth. ANYWAY, Jeff refused, so I texted my sister and demanded my brother in law come to Baltimore to save me, mostly because he has a gun. And you know what?? HE refused, too!

Having exhausted the entire list of men I know in Maryland, Anna and I had no choice but to handle the task. We devised a plan in which we carried the entire apparatus- plastic lid, plastic bag, roach, metal tin- to the bathroom, where we would then try to flick the roach into the toilet, shut the lid, and flush. We were about 70% into this operation when Jeff (via phone) helpfully suggested that it could probably fly, would land in the toilet water, and then fly into our hair/ eat our faces. Anna was willing to take that chance, but I was NOT. Thus, we began the painstaking process of applying heavy pressure to the tin while sliding the plastic bag until the tin was INSIDE the bag, and the roach was in the tin. We tied the bag in a knot, and then lifted the tin enough to get the lid on it. I wanted to carry it up to the attic and leave it there, but Sarah said I had to take it outside. I ran down the three flights of stairs to the ground floor, opened the front door, and threw the whole thing in the trash. Then I shut and locked the door, and vacuumed my entire room. It was around this time that I realized at some point (probably the screaming/ flailing stage) I had banged my leg pretty badly on something hard. I now have a huge purple and green bruise to show for my efforts.

There is really only one conclusion to draw from this: I need a boyfriend. With a gun.

And... does anyone know if there are cockroaches in Serbia...?