There she is again, that ridiculous spider, spinning her web in my special room. I don’t want to kill her—I hate the guilt—but she doesn’t get it. This is my space. I keep things of value here, and I can’t have bugs messing up the scene.
Last time I saw her—no, scratch that—I saw her yesterday, fixing her web as if I weren’t even in the room. The gall, the disrespect. It’s like she’s daring me to become the villain.
I told my wife I’m a considerate man. Hell, I even sacrificed an ant for Betsy’s sake: plucked it off the kitchen counter, whispered, “You will go to Betsy,” then squished it just enough to immobilize it. I left the body by her web. She didn’t react.
Regret swallowed me whole. I imagined Betsy watching, thinking I cared for her. Little does she know my wife insisted on sparing her life—so here she is, weaving away.
How do you tell a spider she’s not wanted? I tried placing another ant by the window seal, as an offering. She never noticed.
I can’t wait for tech to catch up—some universal translator, so we could talk. I want to ask Betsy: Do you like my music? What if you disagree with my politics? But why bother? She’s just a spider—no brain to speak of.
Yet… maybe she is an artist. After I tore half her web down, the remaining strands caught the lamp’s glow like a fractured Picasso. There was intention in every line.
I froze.
Betsy, I’m sorry I doubted you. I’m sorry I tried to drive you out. You’ve always done right by me.
Now—help me find my car keys.
Don’t make me ask again now...
As an ever-curious student of philosophy, I’ve long been fascinated by the many ways we interpret existence and search for life’s meaning. As someone with an artistic soul, I feel driven to leave my footprints on the world—yet I also know the cosmos at large cares very little about the noise I make.
It’s in those quiet moments of self-reflection, those deep dives into introspection, that absurd little dialogues pull me back into the present. A man arguing with a spider over its right to build a web in his room may sound foolish—ridiculous even—but beneath the surface lie layers to peel away and lessons to learn.
The man isn’t really speaking to the spider: he’s speaking to himself. Anthropomorphizing Betsy gives him permission to voice his doubts—about his music, his politics, his worth—questions he battles every day but has avoided asking directly, for fear of disappointment.
The spider answers without a word. It becomes his scapegoat, unwittingly serving his need to confront and then reject his own self-judgment. In Betsy’s silent artistry—each strand of web catching light like a fractured Picasso—the man glimpses both who he is and who he is not: an artist toiling away, wondering if his efforts will ever matter.
When he finally recoils in anger—“How dare that insignificant creature think less of me?”—he’s really lashing out at his own insecurities. The ending offers no neat climax or resolution, because there can be none. Betsy remains, simply existing. She doesn’t provide answers, nor will she reveal the location of his car keys. But in her silence, the man finds the freedom to reject his self-doubt once more.
After all… the spider doesn’t want to help him. And for that, she cannot be forgiven.
MenO
