Oh, it's you.
Look, I just want to be left alone in my burrow until something comes along to eat. Then I'll eat it. Then I'll go back to sleep.
I really don't enjoy crawling over your fingers in order to impress that girl you got with you. Face it. You really don't have a chance. Even with a pet tarantula. If you had a chance, you wouldn't need a pet tarantula, but having a pet tarantula guarantees you will never have a chance. Not until I die and you throw me in the trashcan.
Jeez, I wish I hadn't thought about that. Now I'm depressed.
The deal is, friend, none of my coolness rubs off on you. None. If that mustache you've been trying to grow and those ill-advised tattoos haven't made you cool, what makes you think I will? That's right, I won't.
In fact, I've got some news to break to you. Tarantulas aren't even cool to themselves. I see nothing remarkable about my eight hairy legs or the way I look. I don't think I'm especially big. Compared to you for example, I'd say I was pretty small. Being a tarantula isn't something I do because it's cool. It's just who I am.
If you really want to do me a favor, find me a mate. I've got an itching to exchange some signals with a female of the same species, mate, then get the hell out of there before she eats me. I've never been a daddy, and I'd like to know there's between fifty and two thousand eggs out there that I've fathered.
Now go away and let me sleep.
