Coonundrums

There are lots of coonundrums in life. For example, how do you even spell the word coonundrum?


And, how do you address the issue of how awesome the current Desiguel Espana collection is, balanced against the odds that it will look much less awesome stretched over my post-Italy body?


Or that I’ve forgotten how the fuck to use Italian verbs conditionally?


How do you decide you’ve had enough of making the first, second and eleventy-billionth moves and if he doesn’t pick up the god damn phone soon, you’re going to emasculate somebody? Probably him. Definitely him! EMASCULATE!!!


Calming down again.


Coonundrums.


In the years since I’ve lived in my flat, I’ve had a few spider problems. There was the great spider crisis of 2009, when I couldn’t exit the flat because I giant huntsman lived over the communal exit. This was solved by a very nice Japanese exchange teacher who caught the huntsman and killed it. By literally catching and squashing it with. Her. Bare. Hands.


Oh I’m sorry, did I say nice Japanese lady? I meant nice crazy person, obviously.


Then there was the time I narrowly avoided death in 2010. I had to park my car across the road for two days because a giant, man-eating orb spider had built a web of apocalyptic proportions in the garden by my parking bay. It sat right in my usual train of trajectory, waiting to gnaw off my face. What’s worse is that my sister actually tried to trick me into its lair but I saw the spider looming in front of me, venom dripping from its giant, orby pincers. I suffered a mild stroke, but otherwise lived to tell the tale.


Spiders have been trying to give me heart attacks, so they can use my body as an incubus, for years. Barbie and I will never forget the gargantuan tarantula like creature that fell on my head when I was seven. It may well have been the same spider that came back to greet my waking self on my pillow when I was 18. Barbie had left me by then; she couldn’t take the pressure. (It was either that or somebody cutting off all her beautiful golden hair.) Spiders have followed me, stalked me, hunted me, every where I’ve ever lived. A wiccan witch once told me that this means I’m a kindred spirit to the arachnid kind.


Witches are stupid. Houses fall on them. The end.

And as for you, arachnids, if this theory is correct then you have not been paying attention to how much mortein I am packing! A whole can is necessary to eradicated the evil predators that lurk the closets, cars, toilets and bedrooms just as I’m beginning to relax.


And let’s not forget Biowatha. I can’t even talk about Biowatha.


Spiders must think I have more life insurance than I do.


Yesterday, it was the spider assault of 2011. After flitting about in my spring jacket all day, I took it off only to find a spider’s egg sac attached to the fabric. If I hadn’t caught on, I have no doubt I would not be here now to tell this story of my miraculous escape; millions of tiny spiders would eventually have emerged from that sac and feasted on me for their first meal.


Like that urban legend where they spill out of a pimple on some cousin of a friend of a perfect stranger’s face!


Except that my jacket is not a pus-filled pimple. It’s from Italy.


And now I will have to burn it. Sad face.


Spiders want to kill me, and now I have proof – look at this!

Well not if I kill you first, buddy!

Question: How do I kill all the spiders in the whole universe???

Coonundrums.