10:15 am - Annie Barrett delights in murdering things

Earlier this morning, I did the EW recap of last night's Desperate Housewives. It probably makes no sense because while writing it, I was literally shaking in my chair in fear of what turned out to be a small moth that had entered my tiny apartment through the wide-open window that I haven't shut for eight days.

When the moth came in, I didn't notice. (I can focus really hard on staring at a blank document, as long as I don't have to actually do anything to it.) But then I heard a really rapid clicking noise, like what you hear when something gets caught in an electric fan. I jumped up and tucked my legs under my butt, as if that would help, as if the creature making the noise might try to attack me from the floor and I would be ready. This made a lot of sense, given that I still didn't know what it was.

I'm trying to decide if "clicking" is the best word for the noise. It could also have been ticking or flicking. The point is that a constant "ick" sound was resonating through my apartment. I'm not embellishing! The apartment is very small, and I swear this was very loud. "Ick-ick-ick-ick-ick." Agghh! THINK ABOUT IT!

At times, the noise would cease, and for some reason I'd get worried. By this point, I'd resigned myself to having a houseguest, so I couldnt' just forget it and move on. Even though the ick-ing was ridiculously unnerving, so was the thought of the thing slinking around on foot, defecating on my possessions or worse, eating my food. I would not stand for this. I wanted it out, which meant it better start making more noise so I could figure out where it was.

So when the ick-ing would suddenly cease, I'd wave my arms wildly, play my coffee table like a bongo, and attempt to simulate "wind" with my mouth. Just blowing into the air wasn't cutting it, so I grabbed a near-empty water bottle and went to town on that. Still no response.

I think my low point was when I started asking the creature where it was, out loud. "Where are you?" It began as a whisper, but after it was so rude as to not respond, I decided to bark it out. "Where? Come on? What the f---?"

I finally started rolling around on my chair just to provide some noise and let the creature gather what a powerful force I (compounded with the chair) could be. I realize now that this probably woke my downstairs neighbor. Okay, I also realized it then. Yes! Courtesy.

It took a few minutes of rolling and listening to determine that I must be dealing with a wing-flapper of some sort. Which should have been obvious, but I was hyper and just didn't get the memo. Understand that I was really proud of this step towards facing the creature. I was confident that it was winged, and impressed that I'd figured it out. Never mind that under that classification, it could have been a pigeon or small bat. Even if it was, I would have had that pre-freakout moment to myself: "Annie, way to go figuring out that the creature has wings. You're awesome."

Then I finally saw it and it was a small moth. Lame! The reality of the deadly creature turning out to be a mere insect seemed pathetic after all that buildup, but dealing it was still a great effort. I became terrified of the thing, simply because it was constantly moving and I was not. If we were at war, it would win based on activity alone. It was fighting so hard and I was just sitting here, frozen and staring, wanting so badly to kill it but knowing I had something important to do and that I should try to ignore it.

The next few minutes were some of my most torturous of 2006. (Hey, I've had a pretty good year!) I'd type one word, then hear the noise. So I'd stop typing. I suddenly thought it'd be easier if the moth didn't know I was here, in the same room and, like itself, only precariously alive. Maybe if I was silent and behaved like a statue with fingers that very occasionally moved, it would leave me alone.

This didn't prove too productive on the writing front. Insetad of focusing on the present and the task at hand, I could only think about what life with the moth would be like a few hours from then. When I'd try to fall asleep, would the moth still be in here? Would I even attempt to sleep if it was? I was positive I wouldn't. I decided I had to kill it. The story was due at 6, but there was a moth in my studio that absolutely had die at 4:55. Priorities. I'm telling you.

It was all or nothing. I'd either kill the moth and then write the story, or I'd do neither. Instead of being scared that I'd get in trouble or seem unprofessional for turning in the story late due to moth-killing, like a normal, professional person might do, I felt a sudden sense of relief. If the story turned out horribly, at least I'd have a really valid excuse. I was 100% preoccupied... by a tiny insect in my room. Totally acceptable! Definitely.

Anyway, I killed it in under two minutes. I faced my creature, backed it up against a salmon-colored wall, and whacked it unnecessarily hard with my paperback copy of A Drinking Life by Pete Hamill. It was amazing. He would have been proud. Or disgusted.

The killing was such a rush. Besides tiny little bugs near the sink, I hadn't annihilated anything substantial since living in the Mouse House at 23rd and Lex in 2004. Staring down at the stupid little moth, I felt like a valiant murderer again. (If you're unaware, I killed over 30 mice in my last apartment, which prompted both extreme psychosis and this handy guide.) Problem was, I didn't feel powerful enough. Killing the moth was nothing like killing the mice. I was a rock star during my mouse-killing phase. I hate to admit that this flashed through my head but at this point I might as well: "I miss mice!"

WHAT?

I need to sleep this off.

(I actually considered making up a more elaborate moth-killing process for dramatic purposes, but you're already wondering if this entire post was really about a moth, and is she serious, and I think at this point it just needs to end.)

Reset. Hello May!