November 05, 2012 - 9:28
The last and perhaps first time I killed a spider was on a summer day in the parking lot of the Karcher Mall. I estimate myself to be 8 or 9, but it's based on how high I hovered above the spider before I stomped on it, which is a recklessly relative gauge.
Anyhow, I lived in the desert (It was summer and very hot), and when I ended this spider, whose backside was engorged, it exploded in hot white slime all over the bottom of my sandal.
I think I almost cried, but it wasn't over realizing via animal gore that this spider had previously been alive, it was only because something about the melted marshmallow texture of the goo, the way it burst, was deeply unsettling to me.
I went on to prove my abject callousness to the life of spiders. I learned to avoid the unpleasantness of smashing by containing my attic bedroom intruders under cups until they starved to death. It was at times a highly populated spider cemetery, and the thoughtlessly cruel child who tended to it vacuumed up the white corpses with a hand held Dirt Devil. She didn't think twice about it.
This is what I thought about a moment ago when I saw a spider and felt fondly towards it, before I watched Wee Bay kill it.
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