How I became Jessie of the Nine Fingers

I wrote this post last night very late, after the traumatic ordeal it explains. And staying up late for Jessica is like being drunk for someone else. Also my Dad and I have been reading a book on how to write like Charles Dickens so...Maybe that will explain a few things for you:)

And now, ladies and gentlemen--the story of how I became known as Jessie of the Nine fingers.

I returned home this evening with nothing much more on my mind than an eagerness to once again be united with my cozy, comfortable, crade-like bed. However, as I finally made it to my room, and in my bed-time preparations casually glanced in the mirror, my eyes caught sight of an enormous black spot on the wall behind me that had not been there before. I whipped around to have my worst fears confirmed; a spider. And one of such large proportions it might by a cat be mistaken as a most hideous, terrifying sort of mouse. I nearly screamed then, but managed to choke it down.

My mind raced through my options. Yes, boyfriend Wilson​ was already gone--would it be any use calling him back? No. It had been nearly 10 minutes since he had dropped me off, by now he was already home in his own, safe, spider-free sanctuary. And my roommates were surely asleep by now, so--no. This hideous monster was to be my demon to face. Alone. I summoned my courage and locked away the disgust that tried to creep it's way up my throat as I picked up a large boot.

Now, as part of my preparations for bed, it is my custom to put my hair up into a bun on the top of my head, so as to keep it dry while I wash my face. As all this drama is happening, I still have a rather hasty, loose bun atop my head, which at any moment is in danger of falling out. (And there is make-up smeared across my face, but that part is not important.)

In an attempt to keep my panic at bay, I acted quickly, so as to get it over with sooner.

I stand on top of a chair--of course the little blighter is trying to take cover in the crack between the ceiling and the wall-- I raise my boot high, and mercilessly smash him with the toe of my mighty weapon. His legs twich. Something oozes--he is dead. And he was juicy, oh barf.

BUT that was the hard part you might say! The trial is over! Wrong.

I take a handful of tissues--more than I needed, environment please forgive me--and I wipe off the boot, and throw it back with the other shoes. I'll try to forget about this the next time I want to wear it. Then I take more tissues and go back for the spider's enormous carcass.

As I raise my tissues high to scoop him up, (fighting more and more disgust every moment) suddenly, I feel a faint, but definite brush on my neck.

This is where I lose my cool. In less than a moment, I know that the spider had a friend, or a lover, that was lurking on the ceiling, and the moment I was focused on something else they dropped down on me to take their sweet revenge on their beloved's killer. Even now I don't scream, but gasp--and my hand jerks, just an inch away from the spider's awful corpse--and the jerk is enough to put my hand directly into it.

The spider guts. My precious little pinky finger has been dipped into the most vile substance I can imagine on this precious earth!! My disgust cannot be contained anymore, and I scream at last. Standing on the chair, one hand claws at my neck, and the other is held aloft in horror, black and blue blood tainting it's once lovely skin. It is bedlam.

After a moment, my clawing hand grabs a hold of something soft, and I sigh. The vengeful arachnid was nothing more than a tendril of hair that had fallen out of my bun and brushed my neck. That cleared up, I look to the mess on my hand, and I stare-- horrified. Rarely have I been so disgusted. Leaping off the chair, I sprint to the bathroom and begin to wash.

Once, twice, three times. My pinky looks fresh, and smells like pine-scented soap, but I know it is not clean. It can never be clean.

And that brings us to now--when I type this post. The reader will understand that I had no choice. In order to save my own life, I had to take the brave, awful road, and remove any digit that had touched such a putrid substance. Was it horrible? Was it painful? Is it now much more difficult to type? Yes. But if I can only be remembered for some small bit of bravery, then I am happy.

May they sing songs of this day, when one girl conquered her fears, and paid the ultimate price for cleanliness. The girl known as Jessie the Nine-fingered.