I wrote myself into roach history tonight.
Many years from now, roach sages will sit around campfires smoking their pipes and pass on the legend of The New Girl; how one night, during an epic family reunion, the Roach clan was disturbed by a dark figure spewing a poisonous spray; how this crazed jackanaps managed to take out 35 of the key family members in just three generous sprays; how, as she got bolder and the roaches beat a panicked retreat, she began leaping about with her deadly feet, squashing cousins and uncles and nieces and grandmothers willy-nilly, laughing manically all the while; how she even managed to catch Uncle Jerome as he tried to skitter up a wall, and giggled as his poison-slick carcass skidded the three feet to the ground; how she left the massacre there all night long, as a warning to other roaches.
The Roach grandmothers will talk about how only a few brave souls managed to escape and move to a new, friendlier house.
Roach Scouts will sit around a campfire and tell stories of the Boogey Lauren.
Roach mamas will warn baby roaches NEVER to play in that house on Sycamore Street.
Roach soldiers will play cards on decks imprinted with my picture, so they are able to recognize the enemy when she approaches.
They won’t know that I went down that night, too, asphyxiated by my own crazed Raid-ing.
They won’t have to.
I’ll have gone down with a smile on my face, knowing that I had given my life to a just cause.
Raise your glasses with me, people, and toast:
A Roach Free World.