Since I am finally moving out of what one of my good friends calls “that weird pimp shack place” — away, away from the sex addicts on the top floor and my next door neighbor who howls like an asthmatic dog while strumming his guitar in unsynchronized fashion — this means my landlords are showing my apartment to potential buyers.

So this means I have been vacuuming, scrubbing the tub and sink, and wiping hard floors with Clorox wipes on a regular basis. Which makes my Mum happy whenever she comes to visit. And she’s coming tomorrow, I realize as I’m typing this, which reminds me to go home after my final and after work to make some sparkle.

But one thing I have not been doing is killing those spiders that live in the corners.

Because I love them.

Spiders are so helpful and wonderful (as long as they come in a reasonable size). They eat small pests that wriggle through the cracks of my old apartment, harvest the fruit flies that plague my kitchen every summer, and keep me company. I have named most of them (the one living near my front door is named Sammy after Sammy Keyes) and there is a Paulito, Paulita, and Buccha. If I have had a bad day, or if I have an existential question, I consult my spiders by kneeling next to them and talking to them while they listen. I say goodnight to Buccha before sleeping. I also assure you that there is nothing wrong with me. Much.

So I feel a little bad about the fact that my spider-friends will drop the corpses of their meals directly under their webs, making it difficult to clean (because my hands will snag on the web and ruin their homes) and that the people touring the apartment have to see all that. It’s not bad…it’s just a little noticeable. And what if the person interested in finding an apartment is afraid of spiders? And what about inspection day, where the landlords will come and evaluate how clean the place is before refunding a good portion (I hope) of my damage deposit? Should I expel my spider friends from my place — not kill, of course, but gently shoo out the front door? What if my roommate next year has a mortal fear of spiders and insists on eradicating them? And my to-be-visiting mother — what will she do? (This was the woman who sent me out into the garden with a shovel and told me to kill all the garden snakes and I wouldn’t, because I like snakes too).

Which leaves me this question: why is love so damn complicated?

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