I don't know how big roaches' brains are, or if they even have brains, but they must have some amazing group think anyway.
Because I swear to God they know when my husband is away.
Whenever he goes they start showing up. First a dead one, then a slow moving one, then they get bold.
Maybe it is their form of entertainment. Kind of like reality television is to us. They pick out some crazy, fame-hungry contestant and send him out into my kitchen. Survive and you get--oh, I don't know--to live and maybe a year supply of whatever it is that roaches eat. Die and, well, at least it is fun for the audience to see that crazy, giant woman screech and throw boots and curse and cry and dispose of the dead hero with a dust pan at arm's reach.
Maybe they even play a drinking game. Every time I scream, "Fuck!" they have to drink. That would explain the slow moving ones.
Now I'm going to go check every bottle of alcohol we have stashed above the fridge to make sure there are no signs of roaches.
This is what I pay the exterminator $25 a month for? I only have to pay my husband in sex and he keeps them at bay.