For a year now it’s been a strange coexistence with these beasts of inconvenience. It’s not like I’d crack open a box of cereal and they’d pour out in a waterfall of crippling disappointment. Or that they’d even be found in the kitchen at all. Normally I’d find one pathetically backstroking on the floor tile in my hallway, and then dispose of it neatly. But every once in a while there’d be an adventurous fucker that would show up on the ceiling above our bed, as we were going to sleep, threatening to drop down like some crazed black-ops periplaneta. All hell would break loose for an hour or so until I could get the thing quarantined and dismissed. Neither of us would sleep for an hour after that. ...