I only kill insects if they bother me. This could mean a) making my skin itch, b) biting me with venomous fangs, or c) giving me the jibblies.
This is why, when two months ago, there were dozens of exploding spider-baby balls cropping up all around my parents' house, I let them be. I said, "Come on, Catherine. They're not harming you. Look at how little! Revel in the wonder of nature! Frolic amongst the trees and feel the fertile forest air!"*
Now, I'm getting my big payback, because the little clutches of swarming gold and brown spiderlings have grown up into web-slinging creepies. Three particularly big ones flank the front door of the house, and comparitively smaller ones have spun webs between the cedars on either side of the front walk or in my mother's minivan, which I have the lend of this month.
Guh! I hate walking through spiderwebs. It's not that the thought of the spider being on me is the problem, but it's the sticky filament that I cannot touch, but only feel.
Now I'm still torn, because I still don't like killing things, but jibbly jibbly jibbly, I hate those webs, and no matter how many times I break them, they just keep coming back.
*While I might have minimally revelled, I did not, as intended, frolic.