My garage has centipedes; it is infested with them, and every other morning or so, I wake to a centipede. The sun wakes me; it's dreary. The rays annoy with the way they bludgeon my sight, penetrating through closed eyelids. I open my eyes to the smell of peeling paint, dry air sprinkled with chemicals. It's probably one of those mornings – the kind where I meet a centipede. I roll into my house robe from the long-twin mattress I placed on the floor. The withered oak, which constitutes my floor, feels hard, smooth, and cool to the touch: it reminds me of college Bio, when I ran my hand across the bosom of a pig cadaver, searching for the proper place and way to cut towards the heart on that dissection tray. I slip my arms through the sleeves of the house robe and tie myself tight, all while lying on the withered oak, binding the cord around my waist like I did the fetal pig. I lie there while thinking back to my college days, where I'm not as stiff and the future is easier to bear. Professor Lewis often tells his students that struggle with his Bio class these words, upon analyzing the sickness in our brains plaguing the mental strength necessary to succeed in his version of the course: "Centipedes have an open-circulatory system... So, think about them in this manner... Centipedes are just one big heart. They move according to their brain, but their heart, that's what permeates every inch and fiber of their carbon-based being." For some reason, his words resonate through my soul like MLK's allusion to the Liberty Bell, yet for some reason, I don't hear the bell ring. I hear C.S. Lewis professing his beliefs on a podium. He was an extraordinary professor... I deserve the best and follow suit each and every morning with eggs scrambled, cooked in bacon juice, and seasoned with perfection. Likewise, I follow my routine and go to the garage to get spare eggs, where centipedes lie in wait – hoping to taste my flesh... Or at least, that's what my phone says, because apparently, some centipedes do indeed eat flesh. My smartphone professes many things; it's the place for finding and losing any person, place, or thing I care about. As I go to the garage, I sense a legged presence, scurrying for the stacks of boxes consuming garage space, from the corner of my eye. I lose him in my panic: I lose him to my fear. There's a pathway – two actually. One leads to the refrigerator, stuffed in my garage, and the other leads to my little sedan, sitting in the elements, due to the obvious lack of space. Thankfully, I do not need to stay long because the fridge is closer and holds my eggs; and as with every morning, I wait for the day when all centipedes die from my neglect. But, they never do; they never die, that is, until I realize that they probably feast on my boxes filled to the brim with notebooks of failed manuscripts and other critters who also find their way into my cluttered garage, which they find to be an appealing living space. And as I saw the centipede disappear into the boxes, I wonder, why do they bother me; they're just centipedes... Why not bother a real writer – one that's been published? Ten o'clock in the morning, I eat; twelve o'clock in the afternoon, I eat; ten o'clock in the evening, I eat eggs and bacon for breakfast – seasoned with perfection. And, it's all cooked to perfection. However, each and every morning, the boxes that hold the centipedes, who lurk in the shadows, occupy my thoughts more and more and more with each journey to the garage to get my eggs and bacon for breakfast. It's weird. I stare at the wall next to my bed; and lo and behold, up on my white ceiling, a centipede hangs above my head watching with eyes I cannot see and legs ready to flee. The presence sends a jolt of adrenaline mixed with fear down my spine. I am not in good company. It's a large centipede. The legs, not quite a hundred, stretch out, spread above my face. I think to myself: Will it drop down? The thought scares me, much more than the centipede itself; and as I watch him hang still and stiff, he suddenly moves, albeit, unlike the ones before him. This one is bold. He struts each and every leg as he waltzes across my ceiling. He fears nothing, not even the human below him. Others hide behind boxes; but no, this one enters my domain, the very house itself, and seems to be making a statement. Though, I have no idea what a centipede could or would have to say to me – the gracious provider of boxes.