Well, just narrowly avoided death.
There I was, digesting my fried pork and egg bun, sitting on the couch watching Anthony Bourdain as I lamented the Land of Unemployment (gorged out, getting fatter and awaiting a Double Feature in the neighborhood).
I was making out-loud scoffs at the TV, as my roommate's girlfriend tip-tapped away on her computer box to do her "work," when what do our wandering ears behold?
A knock on the door. In the middle of the afternoon, the only thing I could suppose it would be is an arrival of DVDs from the UPS man.
But it wasn't!
It was a Pest Control man who lumbered up towards us; he was clearly either drunk or on some kind of crazy wacky weeds (who am I to judge ... unless if he was about to murder us?)
He came in, he made jokes at Hendrix (our dog), made me sign a paper that assured that he had, indeed, come by the apartment.
He laughed, he looked at us crazily; the roommate's girlfriend tip-toed back away, slowly, when our eyes met and recognized that we both sensed that we were about to be knifed.
He didn't spray anything and just took his clipboard and pesticide vat along out with him. My mouth just stood agape, probably breathing in the death gas he'd inconspicuously sprayed about the kitchen.
I had to go into my room, since I'd just narrowly escaped a knifing. Roommate's Girlfriend had to breathe deeply, do some mindless typing, pace up and down the hallway -- until we both elaborated on how we should be thankful for our lives.
It reminded me of poor Mathew Broderick/Jim Carrey situation in The Cable Guy.