Sorry I smashed everything under your exoskeleton into mush. I turned on the lights in the bathroom and you came running out. You know – that cool, moist room with all the smooth surfaces to walk around on? I know this is going to be hard for you to understand, but that’s actually the room that I BATHE in. It’s this thing that most people of my species do when we feel gross. We run water all over ourselves and do all this other stuff that would probably be way over your head. You know what? Forget it.
Anyway, you came running out of that room and went into my bedroom. Right when I was turning on the light, too! I wasn’t expecting that, you little dickens!
If you don’t get showers, you’re not going to understand bedrooms. I’m not even going to waste my time on that. You also probably don’t understand lights, either, save for that weird primordial brain switch that makes you run whenever you see it. Whatever – none of this even matters anyway because you’re dead. I smashed the crap out of you with a shoe. Do you understand the concept of shoes? I bet you do now.
I know you’ve probably lived in this apartment longer than I have. That makes me feel kind of bad for murdering you in what you probably considered your own home. For that I’m sorry, but let’s face it – I pay way more rent than you do. Are you familiar with rent? It’s the stuff I pay way too much of to have to share an apartment with you.
It fills my heart with stress and mild-to-moderate disgust to think that you died as you probably lived – hiding underneath my night stand. You were really big, and you had really long antennae, and I really hope that I never see any of your friends in my apartment for the duration of my lease, which will almost certainly not be renewed.
Rest in pieces, motherfucker.