Fred. What can I say? Liz and I both think you're amazing. Ever since you crept into our lives close to eight months ago, you've made reaching for Rubbermaid a thing to look forward to. If it weren't for your killer instinct and vigilant presence, I would have no knowledge of the disgusting creatures that lurk in the darkest depths of my apartment. I could say you're like one of those black lights they use on CSI to find semen... but you're more than that. It's more like, if after said semen was found, Ted Danson went around a corner with that black light, handed it an untraceable gun and said, "You find the owner of that semen, black light. Find him and kill him. And if you ever tell anyone it was under my authority? I'll find your brain and put a fucking knife in it."
Even though we've never talked, I know a lot about you. I can tell by your rate of growth that you're not a glutton. That's probably the first mistake a lot of rookie spiders make -- eating more than their fill. You're like a wise old con-man who knew never to chase the big score. It's not about the score, it's about retiring on a nice comfortable easy chair of beetle bones and smoking a beetle bone pipe while your grandkids visit you on your birthday -- another beetle-bone necktie! Geez, thanks a lot, kids. Boy, all those cheesy cartoons in the Hallmark retirement cards are true after all.
I also know you're not one for settling down. In all the time you've been here, you've never really put up a web. You just kind of hang insect body parts from the cabinet level above, like some creepy baby mobile over a crib of some crib-sleeping, baby diaper wearing homicidal maniac. Why no web? Conserving your energy? Is that the wise old con man in you, telling you not to put down roots?
You're also incredibly respectful and considerate -- never pushy. If ever I open the cabinet, you're around just long enough for me to say "Hey, Fred!" but then you scurry up to the second level of the cabinet and out of sight. Sure, it might be out of self preservation, but some part of me thinks you recognize us as the native species, and this is just how you show deference.
You've lived life by the rules, Fred. You've played it safe, you've watched what you ate and you've thrived. You know what you're doing. You're a spider of principle. But if I could give you one piece of advice, it would be this... throw out the playbook. Don't be so stubborn! Throw caution to the wind and knock down those self-imposed walls. Sure, you've survived... but have you really lived? You don't have to throw up a web just yet. Start small. Take a step outside your cabinet. Check out that hinge that's always looked so interesting and exotic from afar. Go make a move on that daddy long-legs across the room! C'mon -- I'm not saying marry her, just have some fun! You know what they say: the longer the legs, the more viscous the Malpighian Tubule. But when the time is right... we would be honored for you to weave your web in our home. Gotta have room for those grand-kids. Get on that, by the way. You're not getting any younger. How long to spiders live, anyway? Sorry, now I'm being pushy.
In closing, Fred: my home is your game preserve. You've had a great year, but there's still time to put a silverfish or two under your belt, huh? Check the mixing bowl a couple cabinets over... Tell them Ted Danson sent you. Y'know, just to freak 'em out. Bon appetit.
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