"What's up, big guy?" I asked. "Ninjas in the purse?"
The tip of his tail twitched, but he didn't look away from the purse.
Puzzled, I leaned in over him and discovered that his eyes were riveted on what looked like a piece of string dangling off the side of the purse.
A...moving...piece of string.
I grabbed the far end of the purse and shook. A two-inch centipede fell off, rolled, and began booking across the kitchen floor.
Although Ben will confidently bring down a fifth-kyu ninja, he wasn't gettin' anywhere NEAR the bug, for which I cannot blame him in the slightest. Ninjas are pushovers compared to centipedes.
Ladies and gentlemen, I submit that the worst part of being single is not emotional insecurity or financial instability, it's not the lack of readily available sex or the fact that no recipes are made for a single person and you're left eating quesadillas for five days.
No, the worst part of being single is having to kill your own centipedes.
I grabbed a Birkenstock and hammered it repeatedly. Leggy bastard wouldn't die. It kept on wiggling for nearly a dozen smacks before it finally gave up and lay limp and splattered across the shoe. Even then, I wasn't willing to touch it, even through a paper towel, and scraped it off on the rim of the garbage can.
There was a bigass bitey centipede IN THE APARTMENT. I may have to move to a hotel, burn my shoe, and buy a new purse.