Don’t hurt that bat, Creed! It’s a living thing with feelings and a family!

Last night, after a lovely (but spicy) dinner at Chipotle, I came home and decided to write articles for the rest of the evening. Then I looked at my bed and thought, "I should change my sheets." And then changing my sheets led to starting some laundry and that led to putting my pajamas on (I don't know) and THAT led to watching TV with Heidi. I don't know how these things happen, they just do. After TV, I was all, "I'm going to go to my room," and that's when I saw IT. On the wall, right outside my bedroom door. A giant bug that had a million legs. A MILLION.

Now. I'm OK with most bugs. I usually let spiders live if I see one in the apartment (because spiders eat bugs) and if I see any other bugs, I smoosh the crap out of them with a tissue. And then I flush them down the toilet just in case they're zombie bugs and they're going to come back to life. One time, at my old apartment, Phoebe killed a cricket (while I freaked out and cowered on the couch . . . from a cricket . . . not my proudest moment) and I ran it down the garbage disposal.

But, you guys? This bug was monstrous and creepy. Did I mention all the legs? Bugs with millions of legs freak me out. OK, Google tells me that this bug was a common house centipede, but WHATEVER, Google, you didn't see it! Ahem. So, I clutched the wall and stared at the bug and said, "Heidi! COME HERE THERE'S A BUG OH MY GOD," and she was all, "OH MY GOD WHAT IS IT?" and I was like, "I DON'T KNOW I NEED A SHOE GIVE ME A SHOE SO I CAN SMASH IT!" and she was like, "We need a stick! A long stick!" and I was all, "that's what she said!" only not really, really I said, "GET. ME. A. SHOE!" Because I couldn't go in my ROOM to get one of MY shoes because THE BUG WAS RIGHT NEXT TO MY DOOR AND WHAT IF IT ATTACKED ME AS I WALKED BY AHHHHH!

So, Heidi picked up one of her (brand new) running shoes. I said, "Are you sure you don't want me to use an old shoe?" She looked at the shoe and then looked at me and then looked back at the shoe and said, "I'll get an old shoe." She gave me an old ballet flat, when what I really wanted was a giant combat boot. Something with some weight to it, you know? But I took the ballet flat and I crouched next to the bug.

Me: Oh my god.
Heidi: Smash it!
Me: Oh my god oh my god oh my god.
Heidi: Do you want me to do it?
Me: No . . . I'll do it.

And then I SMASHED the shoe into the wall! And missed! And the bug ran behind the hallway mirror!

[cue loud, girlish screaming]

Me: I MISSED!
Heidi: WHERE IS IT? IS IT ON THE SHOE? IT'S ON THE SHOE!
Me: IT'S NOT ON THE SHOE! [looks at shoe in horror] IT'S NOT ON THE SHOE, it's behind the mirror.

So I walked closer to the mirror and waited. And waited. And then it came out! And I smashed it! And I missed again! AND THEN, YOU GUYS, IT RAN INTO MY ROOM!

Heidi: It ran in your room!
Me: I KNOW!
Heidi: GET IT, GET IT!

I went in my room and started stabbing the bug with the toe of the shoe.

Me: DIE, BUG, DIE DIE DIE!
Heidi: Is it dead?
Me: AHHHHHH!!
Heidi: Is it dead?
Me: WHY. WON'T. IT. DIE???
Heidi: Is it dead?
Me: . . .
Heidi: Is it dead?
Me: Yeah.
Heidi: I'll get the vacuum and you can sweep it up.
Me: Good idea.

So the bug is now inside our vacuum. Hopefully it's dead. Otherwise, I'm afraid it'll attack me the next time I empty the vacuum cleaner. I feel a lot closer to Heidi now. Like we've been through battle together. Because that WAS a battle and don't you argue because YOU WEREN'T THERE. You didn't see the evil look on that nefarious bug's face.

(To be continued? DUN DUN DUUUUUUUN!)

One day I will grow up. That day is not today.

You guys, I know I'm just a few weeks (OK, 13 days) shy of 26, but I think I'm officially old. I pulled a muscle in my back TAKING A SHOWER this morning. Just . . . what? How do you pull a muscle while you're shampooing your hair? Explain that to me. Please. I did this once in college, too. Pulled a muscle doing something ridiculous, like picking up a shoe off the floor. If I remember correctly, the only thing that made it feel better was a pitcher of beer so if you'll excuse me, I think I need to get to the bar.

Guess what? (Here is where you say, "what, Jennie?") Last night, I was so productive. Only not that productive, really. I went running and was going to write an article, but then I got distracted by this ("This is an ex-parrot!") and by the time Heidi got home, it was time for dinner. Against our better judgement, we went to Penn Station. I forget that every time I eat there, I feel like shit for at least 12 hours after. You'd think I'd have learned by now to stay away, but you'd be wrong. I think Penn Station puts crack in their subs.

You guys know how I write How To articles, right? You really should, because besides running, reading, The Office, and Wii, that's pretty much all I talk about here. I know it seems like I blow them off most of the time and, yes, there HAVE been occasions where I really had no idea what I was talking about and so FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, do not try to breed garter snakes based on an article you get from the Internets. Please. Anyway, I do try to take most of them seriously and do the required research. This one time I had to write something like, "How to Find Love on an Internet Dating Site" or whatever, because when you're looking for advice on love and relationships, I am the PERFECT person to come to. In any case, I made up (free) fake profiles on both Match.com and eHarmony and, for future reference, if any of you are looking for some Internet loving and you have a short attention span, go to Match, not eHarmony. Match makes you fill out a fairly long profile, but eHarmony makes you take this test that's longer than the SATs. It had at least 5000 questions on it. After a while, I just started hitting random buttons without reading the questions and, just based on the profiles eHarmony sent me afterward, apparently I told them that I was interested in 60-year-old smokers who lived 300 miles away and had at least eight children. You know what? Just stay away from Internet dating, OK?

Last night, I wrote "How to Switch from AOL to Gmail," which is perfect really, because I want to have Google's babies. I feel like Google is this benevolent, all-seeing entity that watches over all of us and wants us to be happy. Why else would Google have invented Google Talk? And Google Reader! And Google Docs and OH MY GOD GOOGLE BOOKS! Ahem. For realsies, though, I Google something at least once an hour. Hell, I've Googled myself. Don't judge. Everyone Googles themselves, it's perfectly natural.

While I am very familiar with Google and all of their services, I couldn't remember much about signing up for Gmail because I did it about a hundred million years ago. Back when you still needed an invitation to sign up. But no one invited me. Blogger gave me an account because I . . . had a blog? I don't know. Whatever, the point is, I've been using Gmail since THE BEGINNING so suck it. Sorry. Anyway, so last night I went through the whole process of signing up for a new email account (RESEARCH!), which is why I now have this email address: jen.poopsmith@gmail.com. And I KNOW that's absolutely ridiculous, because come on . . . no one even calls me Jen.