A letter to the roaches in New York City, from Lauren Kahme, Editor-in-Chief.
My dearest Periplaneta americana,
It has been nine long months without your crackle behind my snack bags, your rustle between the blinds, or your tickle on my arm as I sleep and pretend not to feel you. It has been quite the adjustment to live with your Southern siblings, the Palmetto Bug (Floridian cockroach). They do not snuggle me in bed the way you once did in Sulzberger Hall, and they do not sit with me as I complete my coursework. They do not support me in my professional endeavors the way you did, crawling on my “corporate jewelry.” They simply appear, uninvited, into my room late at night. Both of you disturb my life, for certain, but at least you make the effort to form an intimate bond with me. They merely appear and disappear on a whim, not bothering to alert me through the little “tip tap” I used to hear on the linoleum floor as you scurried by. They lurk in the shadows and spring their presence upon me for the sole purpose of witnessing my horror and disgust. To be sure, you frighten and repulse me, too; however, you do it with such grace and dignity, so unlike your Southern siblings. In summation, I somehow miss you, my dear New York City cockroach. I hope you are thriving off of someone else’s chips and chocolate. I hope you find as much appeasement with someone else’s face of fright as you did mine. Please know that I would only ever kill you with a winter boot of the highest quality, not a croc like your Palmetto relatives receive.
Until we meet again, your truest frenemy,
Evil Palmetto Specimen via my brother’s phone camera