There is no Day Five. There are four lights.
Day Five was a good, normal, nothing went wrong day. Then yesterday happened.
Mr. PKB contacted a county inspector to come out and take a look at our apartment and situation. The inspector agree that bombs don’t work, and found a couple of repairs that my landlady is required to make in the next two weeks (mold in the bathroom, and fixing the cabinets underneath our kitchen sink.
I called Mr. PKB on my lunch break to hear how it was and ask about his day. And while we’re on the phone, he sees one. A bed bug. On our bed. So he hangs up with me, and starts disassembling the bed again. And he sees that the frame ripped the enclosure on our box spring. He kills three bed bugs, bottles up a fourth to email photos of to the inspector and keep for the exterminator, and rewashes the bedding, resteams the room, puts down diatomaceous earth, the whole thing. I go out and drop another $100 on a new enclosure for the box spring, a new pillow for our houseguest (who arrived last night) and an enclosure for her pillow. We are cautiously optimistic.
This morning, I wake up and there’s three bites on my right calf. Now, bites can take a day or so to appear, they could have happened yesterday and I didn’t realize it (I wore jeans and I don’t notice them when I have pants on). They could be from last night. There’s no way to know.
And I can’t help but think that the fuckers wouldn’t be a fucking problem if my cheap landlady HAD ACTUALLY HAD THEM SPRAY ON MONDAY AS SHE WAS SUPPOSED TO.
Also, my uncle’s in hospice. So banner fucking day, Day Six. Banner. Fucking. Day.