We are cleaning the entire garage this weekend. I have to. I don't think I can sleep until I do. I took the garbage out last night through the garage and saw a cockroach so big that it made a noise when it ran. It stopped skittering across the floor for a moment and turned to look at me, it's little arm throwing some sort of gang sign at me; it's other little arm grabbing its crotch, all the while yelling "What what! These are MY wet boxes motha fuckah!" Had I a can of Raid, I'm sure I coulda popped a cap in his ass, but all I had was a longish t-shirt barely covering my bum, a bag of tasty garbage and flip flops. I could have stepped on it, except I had the feeling that I would have felt it's little cockroach muscles flex through my squishy, wimpy, foam flip flop pushing back against my foot and then I'd have to flex my toes into the floor to actually squish it. I couldn't do it. I just slowly backed my way out the side door to the garbage can where I fought off the urge to run and turn over the whole house, furniture, kids, food and dog to the roach. Instead I'm fighting back, armed with various chemicals, a broom and big black boots, every box gets put away, every hunk of garbage is going out and every unwelcome animal obliterated.