The Death of Jean-Paul

Jean-Paul is dead.

And I killed him.

Now, before anyone goes calling 911 and having me sent to prison (please don't) let me explain: Jean-Paul was the name I gave the cockroach in my bathroom. I'm not sure it's healthy to name one's insect pests, but there it is. For those keeping score: Georges lives in the kitchen. I haven't gotten him yet. And I don't think he's a roach. Maybe some kind of irritating beetle?

Bugs: yet another funny little 'New York thing' to get used to. Why it is we're so afraid of insects, anyway? Is it because they have tough little shells (not too tough to be destroyed by a cunning combination of cleaning spray and well-applied flip-flop, mind you)? Is it because they're faster than us? Because they have too many legs? Because they can get into (and out of) places we can't even imagine? Is it all of the above?

I hate insects. I don't like them in my home; I don't like them when I'm outside; I don't like them. For all of the above reasons, I don't like them. But why am I scared of them? Why do I shriek when I see one? Why do I have nightmares? Most of them don't even bite. Or carry disease. Or do anything except be in the wrong place at the wrong time looking ugly.

I mean, in the battle of woman versus insect... woman usually comes out on top. And insect ends up squished into the bottom of my shoe.

Still, it's a battle I'd rather not fight. That doesn't mean you're safe, Georges. If I see you, I will kill you. I'm paying the way-too-high rent in this apartment, and unless you pony up some cash, I'm considering you a squatter.

And in my house, squatters end up dead.