Monday, October 16, 2006

Never would I have imagined, in all my darkest hypotheticals and fiction most foul, that I would be the one to scratch my car. Previously the offender donned a sinister shape in a perfect scenario: a hooded figure, hands wringing furiously, probably a wheezer to boot, would park close to my baby in a tan Delta 88 and proceed diabolically, willfully even, to slam open the driver’s side door in gleeful abandon. I’m outraged simply thinking about it.

Well, the wheezing mouth-breather turned out to be yours truly, and the shame is enormous. It was evening, a weekday, and this vile anecdote about brown recluse spiders and rotting flesh was still fresh in my mind. Oh, I can already hear you advising me to think happier thoughts, as if musing about clowns and goddamn unicorns would’ve made a difference.

Upon exiting my car I discovered firsthand–or, more accurately, firstface–a thick spiderweb constructed conveniently at eye level.

Holy shit, I bet this was made by a brown recluse, I thought in terror.

Fear mingled with indignation, however, when it occurred to me some spider had purposely left this thing hanging there. Remember the Disney adaptation of James and the Giant Peach? For some sickeningly sweet reason, a roll of thread would eject from the French spider’s abdomen whenever the need arose. Let’s cut le crap. We all know from whence spiderwebs come. They pour out of a spider’s ass.

And right into my hair, shirt, and jeans, apparently. Round I spun in a desperate push to get the stuff off me, and in the excitement I keyed my trunk. It was a small cut, less than a quarter of an inch long, but the deed was done. The very Swedish construction now had a very Swedish mark. You know what, though? Buried in the frustration was a sigh of relief.