Read the first part here.
I walked over to my closet to see what possibly violent objects I already owned. Fireworks. A rake. A Roomba. That would be enough to at least send a message to the bed bugs. A message that said, “I’m sick of your nomadic friends who stop by unannounced. Sick of your preference for ironically watching the Christian channel. Sick of your ambivalent gazes at my leopard arms.”
I looked at my bed and thought of my ex-girlfriend and her scabby knees that would hang out over the edge, a pretty pink against my white sheets. We had interesting times in that bed, she always talking to me like I was a girl because she thought it was funny. “Good night, Princess,” she would say. I took out a few choke bombs and crackle snakes and lined the space between the mattresses with them like I was making a peanut butter sandwich out of it all. I became vaguely hungry but I knew I would be nauseous soon. Then I jumped on the bed to ignite them all. I lit a sparkler and stuck it in sideways, fire first. Smoke started pouring out and a small part of the bed lit on fire, which I batted out with an old Pottery Barn catalog. Finally, I went to the kitchen and grabbed some saran wrap and wrapped the entire bed in it.
My apartment smelled like stove gas and croutons, with a syrupy note that I didn’t understand. I put on my tennis shoes and walked to the store down the street. I bought a carton of milk and a jar of peanut butter and then consumed both straight of the container on my couch when I got home. I fell asleep with my shoes on. When I woke up, the bed bug who I had once gotten drunk with was walking out the door. His eyes looked bloodshot and I didn’t know if it was the fireworks or what. I considered beating him out with my rake but he looked so ashamed that I just nodded and he nodded back, shutting the door behind him.
–Becky Lang is also kind of uneducated about fireworks