I just had to have my bathroom fumigated. I felt dreadful about unleashing roachgeddon, but it had to be done. No more washing roach poop off my toothbrush in the morning, or checking under the toilet seat before I pee.
In a random moment of universal solidarity, I stumbled upon this poem by Robert William Service. It sums up the situation perfectly:
Death of a Cockroach
I opened wide the bath-room door,And all at once switched on the light,When moving swift across the floorI saw a streak of ebon bright:Then quick, with slipper in my hand,Before it could escape,--I slammed.I missed it once, I missed it twice,But got it ere it gained its lair.I fear my words were far from nice,Though d----s with me are rather rare:Then lo! I thought that dying roachRegarded me with some reproach.
Said I: "Don't think I grudge you breath;I hate to spill your greenish gore,But why did you invite your deathBy straying on my bath-room floor?""It is because," said he (or she),"Adventure is my destiny.
"By evolution I was planned,And marvellously made as you;And I am led to understandThe selfsame God conceived us two:Sire, though the coup de grâce you give,Even a roach has right to live."
Said I: "Of course you have a right,--But not to blot my bath-room floor.Yet though with slipper I may smite,Your doom I morally deplore . . .From cellar gloom to stellar spaceLet bards and beetles have their place.