Guilt

Saturday night, there was a big, scary, black, hairy spider on my ceiling. I couldn't reach it to kill it, so I watched it crawl around and hoped it would go away.

Eventually, it did. I was relieved, but then became concerned that I had no idea where the spider was. Later, it returned up high on the wall. I knew what I had to do. I dug out my fly swatter, slowly approached, and squealed like a giant pansy as I swatted it.

I have no idea if I killed it or just angered it, because there were no...remains, if you will. So it's possible that the spider just crawled off on the floor to plot its vengeance.

Sunday, I told my mom about how grown up I had been in killing my own bugs.

Her response?

"Oh, poor spider!"

Apparently, I was supposed to capture him in a glass and then release him into the wild.

I see that as highly unlikely, as it took everything I had in me to get close enough to swat him, and that wasn't very close.

But now I have guilt about the spidercide.

I'm sure I'll work through it.