In All Seriousness

Let me get real up close and personal with you guys for a second and tell you about the time that I had bedbugs. Yes, true story. Y'all that business was all the way real. I'm talking live, and in stereo. I'm talking – moving out of my apartment, throwing away an $1000 mattress and boxspring, washing all of my clothes in water piped in straight from hell, real.

From the time I found out that I had them and for probably at least 3 months after, I didn't wake up one day and not check for those creepy little fuckers. And to make matters worse, my husband is one of those people who doesn't react to their bites – meanwhile I'm over here looking like I have a raging case of poisin something (ivy, oak, sumac – you get the picture). Three doctor's visits and a gang of money later (and now lady – I did NOT have scabies, thank you very much) my life was turned upside-down.

To say that I have developed a paranoia about bedbugs would be the understatement of life. The idea of them scares the ever-loving shit out of me. Every time I see some special expose about them on tv and how they're making a comeback (the eff? bedbugs are NOT Mariah – they do not need a "comeback") – I go into panic mode and start checking things. Bedbugs are not a clean/dirty thing or a poor/rich problem – those bastards are everywhere and I don't ever want them in my life again.

I'm writing this because I need to put this out there and stop fretting about it. Worrying about things I can't change is something I have to always keep in check because I worry. I'm a worrier.  Also, dear universe – spare me, okay?