It’s Thursday, and I usually post something about my dad on Thursdays, but I just ran into my neighbor hobbling along in our apartment complex. I asked why he was hobbling, and it’s because when he stepped outside his door last night, there was a copperhead on his doormat and it bit him on the foot. A copperhead. On his doormat. And it bit him. I can’t post anything even vaguely profound today, because all I can think is snake. SNAKE. SNAAAAAAAAAAAKE! Loose outside my apartment with a thirst for human blood. And I don’t speak parseltongue, so there’s no way I’ll be able to talk it into not to injecting its venom into me. I can’t promise it a nice big rat to eat instead. I can’t ask its name and swap pleasantries about sports and the weather. I can’t offer it some bourbon. I can’t even say, “Look! Over there! Sasquatch!” and point to make it look the other direction while I run away.
And then my other neighbor joined us on the stairs and said she killed one a week ago, and has seen a few baby ones in our back yard. I’m dying. Give me Satan’s cockroach any day over a snake. Can’t handle it. Not just one snake. Snakes – plural. As in, multiple-more-than-one-so-many snakes. I’m never going back to my apartment again. I’m going to go make nice with the cockroach and see if it’ll let me sleep snuggled up with it in the cabinet of my new home immediately. Snakes. Snaaaaaakes. I’ve lost the will to live.