Why spiders are assholes.

This is a spider.

He, is an asshole. Verily, let me recount the story of two pals, bound together by proximity and necessity, out of guilt and happiness, a tale of twin souls, crippled in their own ways.

The story then, of Ghost and Alan.

You see, during the Fall of 2010, I was going through a rough time. I had broken up with my fiancee, I was doing poorly in school, I was struggling at reducing my penis to a manageable size. It was during this time, that I met Alan.

You see, one day upon my wanderings about my abode, meandering around my rather small bedroom, I found, in a remote corner behind my door, a rather unwanted houseguest. And so I began my immediate death ritual that I usually partake in whenever an arachnid manages to find itself within the confines of my room, usually consisting of me waving my hands about like tentacles and making the web slinging gesture from Spiderman, which I’m assuming they find highly offensive.


But something about Alan called out to me. He was tiny, much smaller than a normal spider – he was barely even there, and if he hadn’t been sitting on the white wall on top of a tiny web too small to catch anything other than dust, I wouldn’t even have seen him. But even I could see that this little spider was undeniably crippled.

He only had seven legs.

And so, even as I twisted the paper towel into the shape of a super absorbent penis with which to smite my multi legged nemesis, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for the little guy. And so I decided to let him go – I imagined he would go on his way, telling all his spider friends at the spider bar about my undeniable gesture of goodwill and mercy, which may or may not have had, in my head, the side effect of turning me into the Spider God. It only makes sense – the spider is simply the shitty, vaginally synonymic version of the scorpion, and I, as a scorpio, could be seen to have some sort of mytholog – okay, I really just wanted to let the little guy go okay? So I may be a marauding douchebag, spreading unhappiness and sowing seeds of discontent wherever my penis takes me, but i’m a GENTLE marauding douchebag goddamnit!

But he did not leave. Lo, he did not run. He simply stayed. The entire night. And the next day. And the next. And the next.

And so it went on. I found myself gesturing to him while talking to myself, and god bless his little crippled soul, he listened. He would simply sit there, I imagine his little head nodding in approval while I wished death and decay upon those who had wronged me as he made notes upon possible diagnoses for my obvious mental illness. Sometimes, in my moments of fond remembrance, I like to think of him as being a spider hitman who lost his leg in a vicious accident upon which he was saving a damsel in distress, who then left him as his memories threatened to overwhelm him. Or something like that. I figured that this little guy had an obvious backstory – how else does a spider lose a leg? Not by a fall, not by a climb – he must have been in some kind of dramatic struggle. So I felt at home with him, relating to him my problems and issues, and imagining that this little creature had, at one point, faced down the world with nothing but eight legs and a badass, can do attitude and had lost one leg for his trouble, only to find himself in my room, patiently waiting for me to notice him and to become my mentor of sorts. Like a spidery Yoda, chilling in the swamp for years, tiny and insignificant until Luke finds him, after which he becomes the manifestation of Jedi power. Or a crazy ass fuck who makes Luke carry him around in the swamp for a few days until Luke decides to go on an ill advised suicide mission beyond which Yoda becomes completely useless and decides to die.

But I digress.

Alan and me became a regular partnership. Like a many legged version of Bonnie and what the fuck is a seven legged spider doing with Bonnie, we became a dramatically effective partnership. But as time grew on, I could tell, that having only seven legs was dramatically affecting his life.

Alan, as he tries to rounds the last “leg” of his journey to the hereafter. Yes, he hated that joke too.

He began to become withdrawn, receding to the corner of his web upon my waking up in the morning. My “G’morning Alan!” became a trailed off greeting as I realized I was yet again waking up to what I could only describe as an intensely depressed spider.

So one night, while we’re both morose and pondering over the catastrophe of our respective lives, I looked over and I asked him, “hey buddy, why don’t you ever get laid? I mean, not around here, I like you and all and you’re my bro, but I don’t want your damn kids all over the place. Maybe it’s time that you found your own place, found a special little lady and settled down in a tree outside or something, where you can fuck and frolic to your hearts delight?”

I mean, isn’t that what all we humans want? To fuck and frolic? But he turned around and just gave me a long stare, and then went back to sit down in the corner of his web, thoroughly pissed and showing it. And so it was then that I realized, that what had happened to my little buddy had obviously had something to do with a lady of the past.

It was then I began to notice the little things. A very tiny love letter scribbled and left discarded on my bedroom floor. Silk undergarments that fit my pinky finger. A female spider, sitting at the entrance of my bedroom door, seemingly on the verge of tears and heartbreak, simultaneously going and leaving, coming and going. No seriously, the bitch was moving forward with four legs and moving backwards with four arms, it was some scary shit. Like the exorcist type shit.

This was going to be a picture of a demon crawling up the stairs and me making a joke about doing it with eight hands. A short Google search and three pairs of pissed pants later, here is a picture of Anne Hathaway instead.

It was late one Thursday afternoon when it finally happened. I had trudged my way home, terribly sad from the way that my life was going, and I needed my adorable crippled friend to talk to. Just a few days ago, I had likened his surly attitude to that of House, and tried to fashion him a cane. He didn’t take it too well. Perhaps because the cane was bigger than him, but really, beggars and crippled spiders can’t be choosers.

I came into my room, dropped my bag, and I think that it was that that I got the feeling that something was horribly wrong. I walked over to his tiny little web, where he had stayed during the course of his time with me, for months, and found him laying there, entwined in his own twine.

He was dead.

I wept, that day. He had never eaten, not once. Where I left him, there I found him at the end of the day. How the memories of what was lost must have plagued him! Oh, how his sadness must have overwhelmed him! And my constant digs and leg pulling about his pulled leg!

And then my sadness turned to anger. How dare he leave me in my moment of need? We were more than friends, we were a team. Like Shaggy and an incredibly fucked up Scooby Doo, we were a partnership, a duo of destruction and chaos, two emotionally crippled fuckups out on the town causing mayhem and slaying broads.

But most of all, I felt betrayed. He had taken the easy way out. And so I buried him in the backyard, while the wasps did flybys and the trees waved goodbye, angry tears in my eyes as I said goodbye to my wonderful, woefully fucked up friend.

I will never know his real story. I never will know just what happened to him, and to me, that will be the greatest mystery of all. In a world full of people, he was one of the best spirits I have ever had the fortune to know, and it’s very possible that my life was saved simply because he was always there for me when I needed him, right until the very end when it became too much for him to overcome. And that is why I say, spiders are assholes. They lead you to think that they’re always going to be there for you, with their debonair and their charm, their witty silences and their knowing glances, sharing an intimate joke with you in your moments of sadness, laughing with you in your moments of happiness and sharing with you in all of life’s joys and sorrows. He accompanied me on my journey to the other side of heartbreak, only to depart at one of the worst times, further devastating me. I mean, yeah I lost my girl, nearly failed my courses, didn’t care about life, but I mean, then my best spider pal had to die too? That’s just not fair. Fuck you life. Fuck you and the hatred you have for those who are good and young and full of crippled, depressed spirit. But fuck you too Alan, for leaving me like that in my time of need. You’re an asshole, for what you did. No one will ever replace the void you left in my heart when you left. Whenever I see a spider, I think about you, and what you did. I don’t think I can ever forgive you for it. But I love you man, all the same. We were a team, and regardless of how it ended, I’ll always miss you.

But seriously though?

I fucking hate spiders.


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