I’m only afraid of two things in life: dying without anyone finding me for days, and bed bugs.
The former can’t be helped, I suppose, til I get that housekeeper I keep dreaming about, while the latter remains a constant, Level Orange threat in my life. Living in New York, every trip to the movie theatre…the vintage store…really just any time you leave the house, there’s the decent-sized chance one of those little bastards is going to jump on your person and come home uninvited with you.
Lest you think I’m being paranoid, consider this: just last month, the Urban Outfitters on 14th St and 6th Avenue had to shut down for “maintenance” to rid itself of the evil little pests. Beyond that, I’d call your attention to the fact that not a day goes by when I don’t see a plastic-wrapped mattress staring at me with a mix of defeat and defiance from a street curb, and I’m once again convinced that bed bugs aren’t going anywhere anytime soon. I’ve won this round, making it all the way through the summer bed-bug free, but I know I haven’t won the war.