To whatever gnarly, creepy, fast-moving bug-creepy thing that just skittered across the bedroom carpet:
YOUR DAYS ARE NUMBERED.
Tomorrow death arrives for you in the form of a man bearing a tank filled with stinky stuff, which will cost you your life.
You will pay for keeping me awake all night, psychotically scratching myself because I think your ooky legs are crawling on me. You will pay for me having to spray my horse's anti-insect spray all over me.
You may have eluded my detective work, which consisted of squealing and kicking every piece of furniture to see if you'll run out with your 500 legs BUT you will. not. escape. the. Orkin man.
So party it up tonight (just not anywhere on my body or within 20 feet of me) because tomorrow? YOU WILL DIE.
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