A letter to the Giant Foot-Eating Spider living in my bed

Dear Giant Foot-Eating Spider,

First off, I'd like to say that I know there is more than one side to every story, and I fully intend to hear you out on yours (from a safe distance, and while holding a can of Raid) after I say my bit. Giant Foot-Eating Spider, I don't really appreciate you leaving your giant fang marks on the top of my foot, unprovoked. I'm quite certain I am not an appropriate meal for you, and it's becoming clear to me we need to set boundaries if we're going to be cohabitating. (By the way, I really need you to sign the lease. I'm not comfortable bearing the responsiblity for your portion of the rent if you decide to eat my roommate and high-legs it out of town.)

It's true that in the middle of the night I might have rolled over while attempting to spoon you, squishing one of your gigantic hairy legs. But let's be real: you have EIGHT of them. Couldn't you have just pulled one off and gone about your business with the remaining seven? I mean, why in the world do you need eight legs? Really. I don't see why you couldn't have taken one for the team and saved me the doctor's bill, which I'd ask you to pay, but realize would be pointless as your full time job seems to be liquifying and eating me, bit by tiny bit. (Which I hear doesn't really pay well and might be a bit ambitious, if I may be so bold.)

I must admit I haven't been that comfortable around you lately. I just always feel like I'm being watched by a million tiny little eyes. I think that if you would spend more time out in the open and less time lurking in the warm confines of my bed you might be better socialized and less hungry.

Which brings me to my second major point: if you're broke and out of food, please, PLEASE go to the fridge first and see what's leftover before resorting to eating a portion of my leg just because you're lazy and the fridge is a long walk from the bedroom for an arachnid. Have you ever seen Arachnaphobia? THOSE spiders at least checked out the popcorn before lunching on the faces of their human roommates. In fact, if you'd like to leave me a grocery list, I'd be happy to shop for you. For free. Anything to avoid the huge, painful puncture wounds on the top of my foot and the fourteen-colored bruise around them, resulting from your less-than-gentle attack.

I feel your pain, Giant Foot-Eater. I too have low blood sugar. I know what it is to be cranky and famished. But MUST you bite your housemate? Really. That's just bad manners.

Again, I know you probably feel you have a justified position here, but please recognize that I have never sank my teeth into your legs just because I had something in my 24th reflective eye or my mom ate my dad when I was a baby. Those are not excuses, they're circumstances. And they don't make biting me OK.

I want you to know I'm pulling for us to come to a compromise that will enable us not only to live harmoniously, but for me to retain my ability to walk AND potentially for us to even discover a new, cross-species kinship. But if you ever come at me with those teeth of yours again, motherfucker, mark my words: I will scream like a little girl, climb onto the countertop, and call every man I know to hunt you down and spread your guts and those of your babies all across my floor. Keep your Giant Foot-Eating Fangs the fuck away from me and everything will be just fine. Ok?

I thank you for your time and consideration and look forward to reaching a resolution to this issue. Have a nice day, and watch out for the cat.

Best regards from your concerned housemate,

Liz