I'll Be Spooning Roaches for at Least Another Year

I saw him there by the door, poised to wreak terror upon my soon-to-be-slumbering body. He tried to blend in with the wood floor, but the sickly reddish sheen of his wings gave him away.

The chase began when I sprayed him once with Raid, hoping the dose was caustic enough to penetrate his disgusting frame and fry his insides. I took my eyes off of him once, when he lunged from the curtain in my general direction. When I finished screaming like a little girl and cowering behind my French door, the bastard was gone.

This is New Orleans -- so are the grits with herbs and garlic, the afternoon deluges, the poison caterpillars, the toxic and delicious snowballs, the 13-year-olds with guns, that choking small-town feeling, delicious panama hats, jazz fest tourists, Southern conservatism, female pastors, The Mother In Law Lounge, and, of course, that girl with the curly hair.

I wouldn't say I wouldn't trade it for anything, I think I'm proud to call it home, I guess you can say there's no city like it -- but mainly, I'm still here, and ain't that something?