War
We’re under attack. That one roach that I killed last week in my office has multiplied to thousands. They’re everywhere. They’re in the walls, the vents, the ceiling. I can hear them scurrying around. They attack when we’re not looking. They attack when nobody is around. They’ve already claimed the popcorn machine.
It’s a battle. We’re losing. People in my office think that I’m over reacting. They say that since I’m from New York, I should be used to this. I’m not. I didn’t have a roach problem in New York.
I blame Indiana Jones. Ever since he entered the tomb infested with millions of slimy little bugs, I’ve had nightmares. I wake up in the middle of the night and I think that they’re crawling on me. I think that they all carry some rare blood sucking African disease.
I want them all dead. Raid won’t cut it. There are too many of them. I need napalm. Scorched Earth. Burn the fuckers out.
If you don’t hear from me tomorrow, you’ll know what happened. They got me.
