Actual conversation, said in the acidic tone of a spoiled teenager:
"WHAT are you doing?"
"WHO do you think you are?"
Not a flinch.
"This isn't YOUR house."
I didn't know what to do. I was home alone, or so I thought. I couldn't even enter the bathroom that was occupied by this unwanted visitor. How was I to take a shower?
Minutes passed, but it seemed like an hour. A stare-down was all I could think to do. Productivity could not exist in this state of agitation.
Finally, my dad came home from the store. He killed the giant thing, the eight-legged horror who could not, would not, be persuaded.
Everything's fine now.