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“Come into to my parlor,” said the spider to the fly, “for I have a little something.”

Driving home tonight, I was enjoying my quiet ride. I had my iPod on shuffle and I was enjoying the tunes of Built to Spill. I was remembering high school and whether the band came out with anything recently. I realized they probably did and I hadn’t kept up with the times. I made a note to look into it when I got home. Thankfully, home was five minutes away. I was on the second to last road before reaching my humble abode.

As I said, I was nostalgic and tired. I decided I’d go to bed (I’m trying to get to bed early every night). There I was, enjoying some relaxing music and singing along, when I noticed the road flicker. It appeared that the road was changing (like the lights from oncoming cars were all strangely flickering in a weird pattern). “The road can’t be changing; this is nonsense,” I thought as I looked to my visor (where I noticed the slight change in light). I saw a spider and wasn’t alarmed, because it was outside.

Except it wasn’t outside.

It was inside.

Inches from my head.

My road narrowed (because some clown parked in a no-parking zone) and I started to get antsy. I decided to leave the spider alone, because it was merely crossing the visor.

Until it recognized my calmness and decided to change paths.

Suddenly, this spider was embarking on a journey down the visor (ever so close to my face). In my moment of panic, I lifted my right hand and gave him a swat to the right.

“Phew, I dodged him,” I naively thought.

By this time, I had three minutes left to get home (if that). I tried to think about the positive things: he wasn’t near my face, he’s off in the passenger seat, and he can’t get to me that quickly.

As the minutes rolled by, my paranoia began to increase: what if I miss-swatted? What if he was actually at my feet and about to bite my toes?! I’m wearing sandals! What if I never find him? What if he’s a she?! What if she has babies?!

I pulled into my parking spot and turned on the overhead light (something I loathe doing, because everyone can see into my car!). I look at the floor, but he isn’t there. I check the passenger seat floor and he isn’t there. My nightmares are coming true.

He’s gone rogue.

I put the car in park and frantically take a quick glance at my passenger seat.

That’s when I spot him.

Perched next to my purse, this spider is looking at me. I move my purse and items into my lap and stare at him. What am I supposed to do?!

He scuttles in the seat.

I look at my iPod. No, I can’t risk the guts on my iPod; that’s appalling.

I open the glove compartment and pull out a napkin. I will squash him. It’s decided.

He’s gone.

He’s disappeared.

I get out of the car and take out my cell phone. I can’t remember where my car flashlight is, so I remember the application on my phone. I turn on the light and open the passenger door.

He’s not there.

For a moment, I think I should go inside and forget about him. I almost do this, too, until I realize he’s a she and having babies all over my car.

Don’t put off tomorrow what you can do today.

In my moment of sheer madness, I pull the lever on the seat and push the seat forward (I have a two-door, if you haven’t guessed).

There he is.

I scream an accidental, but shrill shriek and stare at him.

He is a thick, giant, yellow spider: the size of a half-dollar coin.

Yes, folks, he isn’t a little spider. I wouldn’t be writing this if this was your average Joe.

No, he’s the one you see pictures of and thank God he doesn’t live in your state.

Under normal circumstances, I’d ask someone else to do the deed, but I couldn’t risk leaving him alone.

I picked him up with my napkin and—yes, guys—I threw it in the street. I know I should have thrown him out or killed him (most of all: I shouldn’t have littered), but desperate times call for desperate measures. The truth is, I couldn’t stand to feel his bone-like body in my hand for longer than absolutely necessary.

I’ll spare you the photo, but if you’re as sick as I am, you can Google it. I have deduced that it is a Yellow Sac Spider, but it’s just larger. That, or my brain thought it was larger. This is possible, but I know what I saw: I wouldn’t have swatted a small spider.

I am now itchy all over.

I’ll leave you with this, though.