A day at home with Simon.

It's a chilly wednesday in spring, the sky, overcast, my pants, smelling of long-since worn in farts, myself...well past the point of caring. My tarantula, Zooey, sits idly by enjoying the slurptastic carapce of a cricket. Suddenly, she speaks.
"Pray, what doth life?" She asks.
"You a spider. You don't talk." I retort.
"Yeah." She says.
"Nah." I reply.
"No see, only you can hear me. I'm a magiucantula. I can grant you three wishes. You only get two though since the first wish is actually getting wishes at all." She replies, suddenly hovering in the air.
"I'm asleep. You do not hover or speak. This is prepostorous." I say, trying to snatch her out of the air, but she bobs and weaves around like an itsy bitsy hairy helicopter.
"Fool. I am a master of the air. It is impossible to catch me." She cackles before crashing into a bunch of bottles piled near my bed, smashing them apart over my pillow and landing with a soft thop on the mattress.
"Oh man, not glass-shard-slepping again. That's my least favorite game. I need to get the broom." I stand up and brush some of the glass onto the floor. The part I never step on.
Zooey is hovering in the air again, all eight legs limply flopping around as she floats like an awful blimp through the crack in the window.
"SSSSSweeeeet Freedom!" she hisses, before I snatch her by a leg and sort of tow her downstairs with me.
"Nah." I say.
There's a horrible scraping noise as I reach the first floor, followed by the heavy, ponderous breathing of a half-dead dog.
"Duhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh." Says Milo, limping around on his crooked doggy legs. "Duhhhhhhhhhhhhh."
Zooey pries herself free and divebombs the dog, landing on his back and scutlling around to his collar as he approches me. Suddenly, he catches sight of her and tries to whip around to snap at her, but he's too old and just falls over instead.
"Duuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhhhhh." He pants.
I locate the broom, a million millipedes marching out of it. Zooey floats off of the dog and performs an odfd little air raid, snatching up one of them before making a show of messily and loudly devouring it in the air.
"Nooo!" It shrieks. "I got kids! So many of them kids! Nooo!"
Zooey floats over to my head and spits some legs at me, before rotating rapidly and floating upstairs. Milo watches her, tarantulansfixed.
"That's you soon, dog!" She shrieks. "Sssssssssoooooooooon!"

The end.