Bugs on Tape
It began innocently enough. The inch-long millipedes that crisscrossed the bathroom floor were oddly entertaining at first. I’d brush my teeth and watch them march in neat rows to, well, I don’t know where they were going.
If I ever live in Costa Rica again—and I might—I will do everything within my non-toxic, cruelty-free power to keep the bugs out of my house. But back in the sadly neglected rental home where this story takes place, that ship had already sailed. And sunk. And been colonized by millipedes.
And so, I did what any once-optimistic, now-sleep-deprived human would do: I declared war.
It began innocently enough. The inch-long millipedes that crisscrossed the bathroom floor were oddly entertaining at first. I’d brush my teeth, and watch them march in neat rows to, well, I don’t know where they were going. There didn’t seem to be a goal. But over time, hundreds—literally hundreds—came and went each day. Sometimes, they came under the door. Other times, they just… appeared. And no matter how carefully I walked, I was crunching them. (Yes, they crunch!)
Despite my efforts to escort them out on a dustpan like a benevolent bug concierge, I kept stepping on them. I was no longer able to go barefoot in my room, and something inside me snapped—probably near my last functioning nerve.
I decided to study their movement like Jane Goodall in a horror film. Eventually, I discovered they had a favorite route near my bed that led to the stone-tiled bathroom. To be clear, my bathroom was clean. The tile had never been so spotless, mostly because I’d begun compulsively mopping in a desperate act of territorial dominance.
I Googled solutions. Diatomaceous earth? Too cruel. It basically shreds a bug’s exoskeleton like they’re crawling over glass shards. I had my limits.
So I tried cayenne pepper hoping they would sneeze themselves to death—until my sinuses revolted. Then cinnamon, which made the bathroom smell like I was baking snickerdoodles in hell. Then vinegar spray. Then dish soap. Nothing worked. The dish soap did slow them down for a bit, though—it was like watching a millipede try to run in molasses. Not proud of that moment.
Eventually, I reached for the universal problem-solver of humankind: duct tape.
Let me just say that creating your own double-sided duct tape is not for the faint of heart—or weak of thumb. But I did it. I laid four feet of sticky death across their main path. And it worked. They’d crawl onto it, get stuck, and… well, die of starvation. I know. Not great. I’m not proud. But I was outnumbered.
Word must’ve spread in the millipede group chat, because a few days later, they started rerouting. A lesson in adaptation for us all.
