At around four AM the other night, I saw a gigantic tarantula hiding behind the bathroom door. I panicked, as is my natural reaction upon the sight or proximity of an enemy insect, and I escaped the scene.

I told you I am seeing strange things.

I ran to the kitchen with outrageous amounts of adrenaline pumping through my body. I stood behind the kitchen table, thinking of what I should do. I would normally scream someone’s name and they would come to deal with the intruder, but this time I was all alone and everyone was sleeping. I was, so to speak, the protagonist.

Almost losing control over my scared bladder, I figured I should do something about the ugly bastard lurking in the bathroom. Serving it “death by shoe” was simply out of the question because it would require me to deliver the fatal blow from a short range, and I was not about to risk another panic attack for the sake of heroism. Thus I became, at this point, the anti hero.

I searched in the kitchen cabinets for something that could function as a swift, long-range killing machine. I could only find spray starch — no slingshots, no Raid, nothing. I did not know what effect spray starch would have on the creature, and I wondered if it would blind it into going in frantic circles until its legs dropped off — at which point I would definitely have a panic attack and die on the spot while everyone dreamed of pink tigers and killer ducks.

I wasn’t entirely clear on what spray starch was, either. Therefore, I opted not to use it and to abort the whole task. I then went straight to my mother and I woke her up complaining that there was a big spider in the bathroom and I could not kill it. My mother is impressively smart and brave around insects. She treats them like they’re worthless shits and even goes so far as to killing them with her bare hands. This disgusts me slightly, but who am I to stand in the way of a swift, short-range killing machine?

My mother got up and went to kill the insect, and she would’ve if she could find it. Nobody else but me ever saw that tarantula and I wonder where something that big could hide in a closed space like a house. It is hairy, disgusting, and huge — not camouflage material at all.

My best guess is that the sneaky tarantula was a figment of my imagination, the child of my insomnia and loss of appetite. It’s either that or Spider Evil dances on everyone’s faces while they sleep every night, going in frantic circles until its legs drop off. Jetlagged and insane.

Take this account, for instance. I would never have thought that the story above is worthy of development, let alone publication, if I weren’t in a unique state of mind like I am now. I have given up on my biological clock that seems to have no shame or morals, and I started gobbling up cough medicine. The twist here is that, contrary to normal behavior, I specifically look for cough medicine with warnings like “Do not operate heavy machinery after taking this drug.” I want the otherwise unwanted side effects. Do not operate heavy machinery? My laptop weighs around 2.5kg.

There goes the tarantula…

Update: It seems as though no cough medicine will do the ungodly work of putting this hallucinating soul to sleep. Therefore, I opted to watch one of my favorite movies of all time: Dracula. The movie is a fraction of the novel, which is simply exquisite. Get to reading it as soon as possible. It is by Bram Stoker who, ironically, loved the same girl as Oscar Wilde. Two of the greatest creators could not be innovative enough to have dissimilar lusts — isn’t that the definition of absurd?

Onward to insane darkness!