I Guess I'm Officially A New Yorker
Despite living on a street that possibly defines the East Village for the last 2 1/2 years, walking everywhere, seeing Mr. Big, having neighborhood spots- my bar, my cafe, etc. none of these facts have made me feel like I can truly call myself a New Yorker. Until Now.
Apparently hair spray is not a good substitution for Raid but it certainly slowed him down. I almost feel bad for letting him die a painful, slow, and agonizing death but honestly, I couldn't figure out what object I wanted to sacrifice in order to give him a quick, swift death. In the end, I settled on hair spray, and when he was moving a bit slower, ran to get the raid. Then slid him into an old Victoria's Secret catalogue which is now his final resting place. I take comfort in knowing he's possibly smashed up in between Giselle's buxom , tan, bikini clad breasts.
Air conditioner broken. Heat wave signaling some serious global warming. Ginormous cock roach. Seriously? What more could I possibly ask for. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to yak.