To the spider I allowed to cohabitate my home for the past few days:
Even after the initial horror of discovering you when I turned on my lamp, I overlooked your continued presence in Bella Cucina. You see, I'd read on some stupid website somewhere that a spider in the house was a sign of good luck. Obviously, the writer of that proverb had never heard of a black widow, or a brown recluse, but okay, whatever. You weren't bothering me, I didn't bother you. I could tolerate you much as one tolerates an unwanted, but unobtrusive, roommate.
Clearly you felt emboldened by my disregard of you, or perhaps it hurt your feelings, or maybe you were looking to commit suicide by proxy, I don't know. Whatever the case, you decided to become a bit more intrusive. Such as...dropping from the ceiling onto the keyboard of my laptop, which you obviously thought would spur me on to more drastic actions. When we stared each other down, and I refused to participate in your game, you decided that a leap in my general direction would surely illicit the response you so (apparently) desired.
Unfortunately, a shriek from me as I frantically scrambled away and practically kicked my computer onto the floor while telling my fiance not to hurt you because I heard you were good luck, was not the correct counter to your forward move. You were obviously frustrated by my attempts to be a good samaritan and decided on moving forward with a plan which could no longer be ignored.
You had babies.
I knew they were yours when the first tiny speck of a spider hatchling crawled across my computer screen. You taught them well.
So, when finding you hovering above the door, no doubt planning your next suicidal leap:
I knew what had to be done. It was inevitable, and what both of us really wanted in the end.