|Photo by Furryscaly via Flickr|
There she was, hobbling toward me, pale, exhausted, her legs splayed, her antennas wild and frenzied, dazed and confused, like a soldier doused with the potent chemicals of warfare, wandering, unknowing, into the enemy's camp.
The poor thing.
She must have made the long, painful trek all the way from the back yard, through the porch, across the beckoning threshhold, crawling the family-room carpet, dodging the gaming systems, controllers, shoes, and dirty socks strewn across the floor from last night's Dead Space 3 adventures, and into the kitchen.
Ah, the cool tiled floor. In search of water, no doubt. Water. To ease her parched little insect throat and rid her body of the toxins spread in heavy layers on her habitat just the day before.
Poor, poor, THWAT!
According to Wikipedia, the little darling I smashed with the flyswatter today was the wingless female of the Oriental roach, blatta orientalis. Blatta creep me out-is. Length: one and one-eighth of an inch. Always seem bigger, don't they?
And now, I am sufficiently nauseating after researching the horror and finding a decent picutre. I may never eat again...this morning.