Dear Unwanted House Guests,

The funny part is I do not remember you actually asking if you could live here.  There was no ad placed on Westside Rentals touting “a fun place for silverfish to hang out and do their thing.”  I received no applications and no permission was granted for your admission.  In fact, I expressly remember boarding up what I assumed was your favorite entrance with a totally insect-proof wall plate.  Yet, you ignored all the warning signs and chose to wreak havoc anyway.

Had you asked nicely if you and your dozens of offspring could lay eggs and take up residence in my laundry basket, I still would have said no.  Why?  Because I’m insectist.  This may not be very Buddhist or vegan-friendly of me, but I’m sorry.  You are NOT wanted here.

I never received a deposit for the tissues I’ve wasted returning your cousins to the dust from whence they came.  Nor do I remember a contract with a panic attack clause, which would have cost you extra.  Not only that, but you’ve kept me up at night, literally, wondering when you little heathens were going to strike next.  You’ve sent out messengers to the master bath and guest bath; I’ve even seen some of your relatives in plain view on my walls!  Have you no shame? 

I realize that you like the water.  However, now that it is gorgeous outside, wouldn’t you prefer to set up camp by the sprinkler systems?  I’d even settle for you creeping up across the hall, where our lovely older single neighbor may enjoy your company.  Or perhaps you’d like to pack up your things and move further down the hall to enjoy some authentic Russian cooking next door.

Regardless of where you go, you must go.  Because unless you get a job, establish credit and start paying off the hefty fines you’ve accrued for emotional and psychological damages, I’m through.  I’m kicking you out.  By whatever means necessary.  That’s right.  I’ve been told that Pic powder kills you.  So even if I have to gate my dog from your favorite hang-outs for a little while, I will.  Because I’m sick of it.  Mi casa is NOT su casa.  This is not your crib.  So go pimp another hood with your colony and leave us the F alone.

You’ve been served.  You have 30 days with which to comply or else it’s off with your tiny little heads.


The Giant Armed with a Kleenex Box Who Screams and Swears When she Sees You

P.S.  My four-legged furry bouncer will be watching you.