It was late afternoon on a humid summer day in my cramped downtown apartment when I noticed the house centipede skittering across my kitchen floor.
Most people would have grabbed a shoe or a paper towel to kill the thing without a second thought.
Instead, I froze and told myself: “Stop! Don’t kill that house centipede!”
The grimy, multi-legged creature was horrifying but oddly compelling.
I remembered something unsettling I’d read somewhere—the reason why these creepy crawlers might actually be your best allies in pest control.
But no one else I lived with felt the same way, and their disgust was tangible.
This moment mattered because it unsettled the uneasy truce I’d been trying to maintain with the tiny invasions in my apartment, challenging me to rethink what felt instinctual and repellent.
On an average day, my routine was a tight squeeze: work from home on a freelance design gig, squeeze in gym time, handle calls from a landlord who’s slow to respond to repair requests, and keep my apartment clean enough to avoid setting off my roommate’s allergies.
The house wasn’t in the best shape, old plumbing sometimes leaking, often dimly lit and dusty in corners.
I tried to keep bugs at bay, but they always seemed to come back.
