how i learned to love by sitting on the toilet
Or, "Mortimer likes to watch me pee"
My lack of fondness for spiders is well-documented. I believe there's even a journal about it (other than this one, something much more academic); but much like my love for my fellow man and sex drive, my fear of spiders has begun to wane, though not nearly as much as the aforementioned.
Right next to my toilet, since returning from my trip to Vegas, lives Mortimer, a daddy long legs. He hangs from a web between the wall and the counter top and is just below my eye-level when I'm seated on the throne taking a dump. He hardly ever moves. And since I'm completely obsessive about keeping insects out of my house, he must rarely eat. Other than his bizarre hobby of watching me conduct my private business, he seems like a good enough chap.
Daddy long legses are the only spider that has made the cut as far as my arachnophobia is concerned. Mostly because they're relatively tiny, a sort of cartoon-y caricature of what a spider should look like and are almost entirely motionless. Plus, I sort of feel bad for them, because whereas other spiders got sexy nicknames like the black widow, or exotic monikers like the tarantula, the daddy long legs sounds like an old, Depression-era euphemism for a retarded circus clown that has now become frowned upon in polite conversation.
Over the past two months, Mortimer has become a sort of pet. I look forward to seeing him. He's really low maintenance too because all he does is sit there and he doesn't come looking for affection, which is a good thing because I'd probably shriek like a girl and lurch away if he ever came in contact with me. However, this week, for a couple days, Mortimer disappeared. On Monday, I figured he was just attending to spider business somewhere. By Wednesday, when he still hadn't returned, I actually started looking for him, but to no avail. I thought maybe the lack of flying insects in the house had finally starved him, or perhaps he'd found another more bountiful perch to occupy. I worried that he might have wandered into my bedroom which would have ended our friendship in bloodshed.
Luckily for both of us, Mortimer has returned, seemingly no worse for wear from his journey. He's once again hanging on his little web hoping for an errant mosquito to make a wrong turn, and I once again have someone to talk to when I urinate.
Maybe I should start going out again.
My lack of fondness for spiders is well-documented. I believe there's even a journal about it (other than this one, something much more academic); but much like my love for my fellow man and sex drive, my fear of spiders has begun to wane, though not nearly as much as the aforementioned.
Right next to my toilet, since returning from my trip to Vegas, lives Mortimer, a daddy long legs. He hangs from a web between the wall and the counter top and is just below my eye-level when I'm seated on the throne taking a dump. He hardly ever moves. And since I'm completely obsessive about keeping insects out of my house, he must rarely eat. Other than his bizarre hobby of watching me conduct my private business, he seems like a good enough chap.
Daddy long legses are the only spider that has made the cut as far as my arachnophobia is concerned. Mostly because they're relatively tiny, a sort of cartoon-y caricature of what a spider should look like and are almost entirely motionless. Plus, I sort of feel bad for them, because whereas other spiders got sexy nicknames like the black widow, or exotic monikers like the tarantula, the daddy long legs sounds like an old, Depression-era euphemism for a retarded circus clown that has now become frowned upon in polite conversation.
Over the past two months, Mortimer has become a sort of pet. I look forward to seeing him. He's really low maintenance too because all he does is sit there and he doesn't come looking for affection, which is a good thing because I'd probably shriek like a girl and lurch away if he ever came in contact with me. However, this week, for a couple days, Mortimer disappeared. On Monday, I figured he was just attending to spider business somewhere. By Wednesday, when he still hadn't returned, I actually started looking for him, but to no avail. I thought maybe the lack of flying insects in the house had finally starved him, or perhaps he'd found another more bountiful perch to occupy. I worried that he might have wandered into my bedroom which would have ended our friendship in bloodshed.
Luckily for both of us, Mortimer has returned, seemingly no worse for wear from his journey. He's once again hanging on his little web hoping for an errant mosquito to make a wrong turn, and I once again have someone to talk to when I urinate.
Maybe I should start going out again.
1 comment:
I love Mortimer, too.
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