When Crack Kills

I didn’t see the spider on the ceiling until I was already in the shower and wet. I hate that. It was directly over my head, perfectly positioned to drop right onto me. I had to keep an eye on it, shampooing as quickly as I could. I resent this, as my hot shower at the end of a long day is one of my greatest life pleasures (pathetic, I know).

As the steam rose, the spider sensed trouble and started making its way closer to the wall. Good, 'cause I was seriously compromising my cervical vertebrae; bad, cause it kept losing its footing on the steamy ceiling and almost falling right onto my face. It would crawl, drop and catch itself. Crawl, drop and catch itself. Finally, it made its way toward a corner and I relaxed. I rinsed my hair, and when I turned around to check on it again, it was gone. Empty expanse of spiderless ceiling. My worst spider nightmare come true. Where is the little bass tard? S***! S***s***s***. Maybe it dropped onto the little shelf where the shampoo bottles hang out. I gingerly poked them to the right and left, but no sign of the spider. GASP! What if it’s in my hair??? I slicked my hand across my wet head, horrified. Couldn’t feel anything. BIGGER GASP! It’s on me in an undisclosed location! AH! AH! A frantic search, and…it was clinging to the small of my back. If he thinks he’s going to hide in that crack, he’s got another thing coming.