The aroma of steaming coffee grounds invades my senses as I sink even deeper into a critical analysis of Alexander Pope’s “Eloisa to Abelard.” Two hours into the pitiful perception of a woman longing for her forbidden lover, and the only sensical part of the experience is the steaming mug in my right hand. Furiously typing in an attempt to finish the paper at a reasonable hour, I shift slightly, feeling something warm on my thigh. I look down only to see the sensical part of my writing experience slowly spilling onto my couch. It is one of those instances where everything appears to be occurring in slow motion. I’m not going to lie, it took me a hot minute to stop the river from staining the cushion any further. This was also one of those instances where I had to put on my big girl pants and clean up the mess. My take on trying to get a stain out of a couch consisted of persistent dabbing with a wet cloth and then letting it dry. The coffee mark was evident for a solid week until my mother visited and helped me clean it correctly.

Every time this happens – which I am embarrassed to admit is more often than not – I wish that I had my mother or her expertise there to help. I’m hopeless when it comes to getting stains out of anything. I’m also terrible at sewing – hence all the wacky patch jobs I’ve performed on articles of clothing. Thank God I decided against pursuing anything in the medical field. If I was tasked with stitching a poor soul, they’d look like Frankenstein. However, the worst part of adulthood for me is handling the creepy crawlies that like to torment my tiny, tiny heart.

Not to be a typical girl, but bugs of any kind constantly have me on edge. I should not be this jumpy in my own home. I guess I did it to myself though, considering I chose an apartment building nestled in a wooded area. I can handle the deer who peacefully graze in the grassy patch next to the parking lot. I can handle the eclectic group of stray cats who frolic the streets by day. I can even handle the persistent red woodpecker who pecks his little heart away every morning like clockwork. What I cannot handle are the evil little insects who invade my personal space. I’ve already established my appreciation for that one-foot circumference of free space called my hula hoop of happiness; therefore, I do not appreciate the stinkbugs and bees who find refuge in my cozy apartment. Let me set the scene for you …

One weekday not too long ago, I was once again sitting on my couch, swaddled in an afghan, the soundtrack of my life (Friends) playing softly in the background. I was diligently completing homework assignments, when all of a sudden, a dark circle approached my left eye at warped speed. I just barely missed the impact of one of the biggest stinkbugs I’ve ever seen. I threw my laptop to the side, haphazardly stumbled out of the afghan, and whipped my head in the direction of the buzzing. There he sat, perched on a floral-patterned pillow, almost taunting me. I raced into the kitchen, grabbed the Windex and a few paper towels, ready to face-off with the invader. Timidly, I walked towards him, careful not to disturb his short-lived victory. I came within a foot of his pinched face, aimed my weapon and fired the blue liquid, stunning him. Then I snatched him up in the paper towels, swiftly carried him into the bathroom, and gave him a royal send off. The battle ended that day with a win for the home team, and I had hoped it would send a clear message to his brethren that I was not in the mood for their antics.

That stinkbug and the many that followed all fell victim to my Windex weapon of choice; however, they were not the first to invade the mainland, and they will not be the last. When I first moved in last summer, I found myself battling a bunch of bees who tried cohabitating with me of all people. I spent many a night in paranoia, waiting for the next bee to emerge and raise my blood pressure. These were the moments when I wished I still lived at home with two brothers and a father who could take care of the bugs for me. I can only do so much with a bottle of Windex and a roll of paper towels, and now that the weather is slowly starting to warm up, I know the bees will be back for round two.

Battle tactics aside, I don’t kill every bug that tries to settle and start a family in my home. There was a little lady bug who settled on a sunflower decoration in my living room. Because I do not like to cohabitate with insects, I placed him outside in the hallway near the window. Every morning when I’d walk into my living room, I’d see him nestled in the same sunflower. Eventually, I gave up and granted little Harold the ladybug permission to live with me. However, one morning when I walked over to the sunflower, I couldn’t find Harold. I looked all over the side table until I saw him; he had fallen into the melted wax of my Sensy. And that is exactly why I no longer let any insects live with me.

Adulthood is hard, especially for a woman terrified of inevitable intruders of the insect variety. Battles occur regularly in the confines of my living room, and so far, I remain the unrivaled victor. As long as I keep Windex, paper towels, and coffee on hand, I should have no trouble keeping the enemies at bay this spring. I’m definitely going to need the rejuvenating qualities of a dark roast to calm my nerves and keep me sane during this war of the insects.