Do you understand how vital -- VITAL! -- it is for my non-creepiness-of-mind and for the general common good and for the precarious safety of our very nation that my thigh stay completely spider-free at all times, especially -- ESPECIALLY! -- when I casually look down from my "Hair" medley music in Follies rehearsal because something light brown and crawly and the size of my ever-loving EAR catches my eye because it looks like it kind of slightly maybe couldn't-possibly-be crawling across my the crisp dark denim thigh area of my brand-spider-free-new jeans and by the time my casual glance down turns into a transfixed-paralyzed-scream stare I realize that THERE! IS! A! SPIDER! ON! ME!
But please try to stay calm and do not spill into the streets like feral marmosets. I have the situation under control. I've already dissolved my brand-new, crisp-dark-denim jeans in acid, severed my leg and stuffed it by dark of night into an industrial-grade wood chipper, burned down our rehearsal space, poisoned the entire state of Iowa with anthrax, and sold the Louisiana Purchase back to the French. So I think the spider is gone.
If you didn't become unfortunate but obviously necessary collateral damage in my perfectly-reasonable-given-the-circumstances spider extermination, you're welcome.
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