It’s that time of year again – the humidity is up and the cockroaches are out, armed and ready to ruin your day wherever possible. I hope that any day now, I’ll wake up and realise that they’re just bugs that in the grand scheme of things do very little harm to my day, but as it turns out, I’m still in the zone of sheer panic upon seeing one. Yes, I am 23 and a ridiculous amount bigger than it, I know, but simply telling me this will have no actual impact on my reflex to freeze or bolt. All in good time.

In the past few weeks, seeing one of those bad boys crawling round the streets of Taiwan is getting all too familiar, but I had been fortunate enough to not see one in my house until a few days ago, where I accidentally left the window in my kitchen open and saw a huge one perched upon my kitchen counter. What did I do next, I hear you ask? Much to the dismay of the feminist in me, I told my boyfriend, who was sat in the other room, to come into the kitchen as I needed his help. Upon his arrival I bolted, left him to deal with it and then insisted that he come with me to the supermarket at 10:30 at night so that I could buy every single cockroach repelling, destroying, eliminating thing that was available.

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