A packeted, blame-free life

Wanted: neighbors who aren’t slovenly, pest-attracting jerks.

Ever since I found a cockroach baked into my Christmas cookies, things haven’t been the same around here. We used to have an agreement: don’t breed, don’t touch my food, and everything will be cool. A couple of weeks ago they started getting fat and wandering into my mixing bowls. Now there are sugar ant-sized roach babies swarming inside my cabinets and all up in my food.

The silver lining here is that I’m blameless. How can the woman who’s food supply relies on condiment packets be responsible for an infestation?

Fun fact: as I was typing this, I went to blow my nose and got a faceful of cockroach in my tissue. Game over. As a kid, I was taught that killing bugs is a sign of deep mental illness. Being a person who prefers to wear that sort of thing on their sleeve, I resolved to not kill bugs or spiders sometime in my early twenties.  This puts me in a karmically sound, yet difficult spot now… I can’t just will these little bastards out of my luxe bachelorette pad.

Yes, I called the leasing office and went nuts. This was follow-up to an in-person visit with a jar full of cockroaches to leave them as a “F you, fix this” present. They’ve sprayed twice, both times I’ve had to empty the kitchen into the living room and live in total squalor.  Whine whine, kvetch kvetch. Does anyone have suggestions on  how to keep these things out of my apartment? I’m wary of cooking while they’re here, since they befoul me food before it’s even done and I have to trash it. No food, no posts, cranky writer.