ipis and butthead

i can name only two things that scare the shit out of me (once i think, literally).  MMDA traffic enforcers - i become tense and restless just thinking about those sky blue uniforms.  one has yet to manifest itself in my presence.  rest assured, i will never bring the truck out without my "bwing bwing" (bawang necklace) around my neck and wooden stake (no, i'm just happy to see you.) in my pocket.  the other thing would be cockroaches.
 
the ipis, as it is known in the vernacular, is treated like any regular rent-paying bedspacer in my home.  it is free to help itself with the food unprotected by the "frigidaire's" cold door.  it loiters around the house, especially in the living room and kitchen, not forgetting to greet our guests with a slight nod.  the lucky ones get a hand shake, or a bristle-covered leg shake.   
 
the World Book Encyclopedia identifies 20 species of the ipis residing in human dwellings (the other 3,480 or so are the more outdoorsy type, genus gala-mazhadus).  three have staked their claim right here, this shithole i fondly call home.  there's the run-forrest-run ipis, notorious for scuttling over tsinelas and feet at breakneck speeds.  then there's the pilates freak ipis, those little buggers who find themselves on their backs, all six legs flailing violently, unable to get back on their feet - doomed to be munched on by a platoon of red ants.  
 
and then, there's the luke skywalker.  guided by the force, these winged pestilence rule my house's airspace, flying with jedi precision from wall to wall, leaving in its wake a variety of bloodcurdling screams (yung sigaw mo sa Shake, Rattle and Roll IV).  they differ in size and posture from the two previously mentioned, they're armed with more heft and their backs are arched not unlike that of a cat making itself seem bigger.  it strikes terror into the hearts of many, the soft crackle of its beating wings announces its presence and foretells of impending catastrophe.

and of course, hounded by chivalric duty, men are supposed to slay these pint-sized dragons.  it is the soles of our islanders and duralites that are preordained to suffer the fate of icky roach carcass.  killing them is futile.  one, they are tough as hell (a slipper landed squarely on one's head.  upon inspection, the little guy stood up, muttered something inappropriate, then stormed off.  as if nothing happened.  juicy fruit wala lang.).  and two, their number is legion.  count how many roachies you see in a day, those outnumber even our bumbay brethren in magallanes.  
 
and there lies my predicament.  i can't kill them.  i can't grab the nearest alfombra and go postal on the little pricks.  it will ruin my chances of survival.  the way i see it, i'd rather be their pet than be their next meal.  by sheer number and resiliency, they own this planet.
 
my fear of cockraches consumes me.  even a night's sleep no longer offers solace and comfort.  all i have left is a healthy dose of paranoia, dreams filled with a belly full of eggs and six tiny legs traipsing over my thighs, onto my back, passing my shoulder, on my neck, heading straight for my left ear.  you know what happens next.