You can’t kill them all—they’ve been around 300 million years, surviving asteroids, ice ages, and your great-aunt’s mothballs. But you can reduce their numbers by sealing cracks, fixing leaks, and vacuuming regularly. Or just move to Antarctica, where the only flat black thing is a penguin’s shadow.
Remember: that bug doesn’t hate you. It’s just trying to eat, mate, and avoid being squished—the same three goals as every Saturday night out. Next time one lands on your lamp, take a breath, realize it probably can’t find the exit, and name it Steve. Because once you name a bug, it becomes less terrifying and more of a mediocre roommate.
And if all else fails? Invest in a flyswatter the size of a tennis racket. You won’t hit the bug, but you’ll feel like a goddamn superhero while missing. That’s the real victory.
