Since autumn is almost upon us, I decided to dig out my bike…oh, but I have to tell you about the little store-room off the carport.
The room of doom.
I don't know if you have the privilege of living in an old house. My house was built in the 1960s, which is not that old in terms of the whole world, but is pretty old in terms of these guys:
My house has spiders of every kind: little ones, big ones, and (most importantly) poisonous ones. The lifespan of a black widow is one year, and mating season is the summer, with eggs hatching in the fall, which is relevant because spiders are protective little jerks. Also, fecund. My carport is just brimming with egg sacs new and old. They look like all of your nightmares:
You guys, I went in with a flashlight and broom and committed a holocaust. I fought a black widow-mother for my bike. I touched so many egg sacs (sidebar: why are sacs such a big thing in nature? Please discuss). Now I'm sitting here, on my couch, writing this. I keep thinking I feel the prickle of baby spiders walking down my back. I'm covered in spider webs and glory (glory is what I call the mysterious, intense itch between my shoulder bladesOHMYGOD AM I DYING?).
I love you, schwinnsy.