2003-08-30 - 7:07 p.m.

Thus far I've watched the Sox lose to the Yankees, hand-washed a shirt only to find what looks like a permanent blood stain (how it got there I have no idea), and have had two run-ins with a spider that I have concluded is not a tarantula, but is almost.

Thinking of animals that defensively shoot off parts of their own bodies, of urban legend horror stories concerning spider eggs, and of the Flaming Lips, I called my dad, just to see if there was anything about spiders I didn�t know and didn�t need to learn the hard way.

I�ll tell you the truth, we had a bunch of spiders in the basement of the old place. It was like National Geographic down there.

Just as he made this comment, the spider made a quick move down its web and consumed a bound, juicy fly.

I promise you do not have to worry getting billions of spider eggs shot at you, my dad said. But it it does happen..., he said, and I was ready to write down this important bit of information, ...film it.

The fucker (the spider, that is, not my dad) was smart. It picked a good place to build a web, and hung outside of my window, away from the less-defendable web, in the runner for the screen window. Years of playing logic video-games helped me form a strategy of opening and closing windows that would allow me to knock the spider out place, get rid of the web, and close all windows in time to prevent it from gaining access.

This was the most humane way I could think of for getting rid of it (I might add that the thing chose it�s website inches away from the head of my bed).

I had assumed it had fallen to its death, but there it was two hours later, glaring at me, mocking me.

By the way, I don't know if Raid would have gotten the job done, but Pledge certainty does not.

I�m awaiting round three, and it�s no-holds-barred this time. That bitch comes back, I�m pullin� a Charlotte�s Web on its ass.