kitsch and creatures

I have a new friend, and his name is Max. He's a bit smaller and greener than most my other friends, but we get along just fine if by "get along" you mean randomly surprise each other in the kitchen and then go running and screaming the other way.

Now I don't have things entirely authoritatively from Max's point of view, but my guess is that he views me as something of a deranged giantess with a less than stellar vocabulary. Not that his vocabulary's that impressive, either, mind you. In fact, in the whole 3.6 seconds we've spent in each other's company, he has not managed one single syllable -- not one! I've managed to get in a least two dozen, though granted they don't vary too far from the "BAD LIZARD!! VERY BAD LIZARD!!! THIS IS MY KITCHEN, NOT YOURS!! BAD LIZARD!!" refrain. But hey, at least I'm communicating.

Max, as it turns out, is not my only kitchen companion. Oh no. I thought I had one flatmate, but either she's been getting up to some very strange procreation in the back bedroom or I actually have a couple hundred other small flatties. Max has, you see, given himself the role of Official Inviter of Vermin to Kim's Flat. He's doing a marvelously good job of it, too, so I'm afraid if you were after the role yourself it's simply not up for grabs. Terribly sorry.

Now the vast majority of these fie--er, friends, seem to be of a similar, exoskeletoned species typically known as ants. I too know them as ants, though I occasionally add a few adjectives in front of their brief nomenclature. Kind of like using their middle name to let them know they're in trouble, you know?

Like I said, I have just one flatmate and she is lovely, except for the fact that she cooks. Try as I might to convert her to the wonders of cereal and chocolate, she remains a devout cooker of dinner. I suppose she can't help it, really.

Unfortunately this habit of hers has helped Max greatly in his plot to lead in an influx of exoskeletoned species who think they own the place. I remind them that I myself am only renting, but they remain unswayed by my efforts. Pretty steady marchers, they are.

And so, after the advent of Max and his horde, I decided to scour the kitchen. (No sense making his job too easy, surely.) Which was a lovely idea, of course, excepting the unfortunate fact you may recall of my flatmate's little habit. The next day Max invited a cockroach.

Now I am all for hospitality, really, I am, but I personally think you ought to be the one the mail's directed to if you want to invite someone over, and I don't care what your title is. And as far as I know, no letters have come for Max, so I really think this behavior is a slight breach of tact. I tried to tell him so, but he ran away. Screaming.

As if the guests in the kitchen weren't enough, Max has also taken to inviting large leggy green creatures into my bathtub (they're fond of crumpling to die in the drain) and a host of flies into, of all places, my bedroom.

Now I do not like flies at the best of times (and, being American, would even be quite inclined to applaud their instant deaths), but this move I thought was just a bit too far over the line. Not only did Max invite them, you see, he also decided they should throw me a surprise party.

Again, I normally am quite fond of surprise parties; it's just that I prefer them to involve my friends, preferably of the human variety. Evidently I forgot to mention that to Max in our brief conversations, though. I really don't know where my priorities have gone.

So in any event, Max very kindly invited about a dozen large (he clearly spared no expense) flies to my room one night and positioned them all strategically on my window and curtains. They were evidently under strict orders not to move, for they flinched not a muscle for upwards of four hours. I was starting to go crazy, and really rather freaked out when it was time for bed. They still, you see, had not moved, but maintained intense stares that suddenly resembled a dozen small video cameras. Was Max in league with the CIA? The KGB? The pervert next door?

Needless to say I hardly slept a wink. The next morning I was still in one, from what I could tell un-photographed piece, and I told Max in no uncertain terms that the party was up. Unfortunately he seemed to have lost his military-like control over the flies and they spent the next three days buzzing around and dying in random tea cups.

Let's just say I won't be drinking out of the elephant cup any more. Haven't told my flatmate, though. Wouldn't want to put her off cooking.