There is a spider, the size of a newborn kitten in my basement.

I encountered it last night while rummaging through a few old boxes that had been sitting

down there gathering dust.

This is a project I'll no longer continue because I will not be going back down there

for the foreseeable future.

If ever again.

I tend to disregard insects in general when they find a way inside, but these circumstances

have affirmed one horrifying truth.

I have been living under the same roof as an eight-legged monster.

And then got my wife, well soon to be ex-wife, and 10-year-old son, who were out of the house

at the time of this unpleasant discovery.

This past Monday, my darling Kim had loaded a few hefty suitcases into the back of our

super-roof forester, just as I was arriving home from work.

Jackson, my son, was in the front seat already buckled in and drawn into an addictive void

of his phone when I confronted her on the steps.

Her say-one word to me in an hour's slit-your-throat look, one that I had grown to know well over

the past eleven years of marriage, was etched so finely in her features that I could only

stand back and watch as she backed out of the driveway.

I don't intend on elaborating about that on here, but there are her mothers until further

notice.

Because of today, and at the time of me writing this, she is nothing but a distraction.

I could care less about the strong possibility that our marriage may very well be in its

...