The fuck do you think you are.
Waltzing into my domicile without so much as a by your leave is rude, not only to me but also to the other spiders already in residence here (I’m looking at you, gangly legged dude abiding in the uppermost corner of my shower. We’re cool.).
You, black, disproportionate, big-ass spider just hanging out on my screen, the inside side of the screen no less, have no business being here. You’re right at eye level. Are you under the presumption that you own the place? You don’t. Neither do I. I pay rent. Where’s your rent?
Don’t look to the goliath spiders. They’re way over at the main door of the building, and their rather impressive web-work is outside. Yeah, they’re the size of quarters and they haunt my dreams, but they appear to be longterm, respectful tenants. They even do guard duty, because who would ever attempt to enter a building they don’t live in with those guys hanging around? Well, apparently you would. Asshole. Seriously, dude, I saw you, like, two minutes after I woke up, the time when I was least equipped to deal with you.
You’re dead now. I’m leaving your body on the balcony as a harbinger to other insects as audacious as yourself (I’m looking at you ants, and I want an answer as to how you got to the third floor and what exactly you think your business is here).