I hate spiders. I always have, and the thought of them makes my skin crawl. Living in the Halloween capital of the world doesn’t make it any easier because I spend my October nights walking by large mechanical spiders hanging on every window. I have secretly used a fax cover sheet to push one near a co-worker, so they would have to kill it instead of me.

Sometimes, I need my wife to kill them on sight. I know, I know, but in my defense, I would totally take out a mouse or a rat she needed me to, so I think we are even. One time, my friends tried to trick me into seeing the movie “Eight Legged Freaks” under the guise of seeing “Attack of the Clones” in a hilariously twisted attempt to cure me of my phobia.

For some reason, I enjoy Spider-Man comic books more than most. I think he has the coolest costume, and I daydream about web-slinging from skyscraper to skyscraper when I visit New York City. Of course, I prefer the comic-inspired web-shooters as opposed to the organic webbing in the movies.

I’ve been writing a weekly comic book column for two months now, and I have been very impressed with the Spider-Man books as of late. One, in particular, had a ton of giant spiders, and I almost couldn’t finish reading it, but I persevered. I just don’t understand how I can enjoy this character much, even though the insignia on his back makes me want to spray Raid on him.

I should probably turn in my man card after all of this. I don’t think I will ever truly discover why I find myself emotionally vested in this character derived from the very thing I simply can’t abide. Maybe this is normal, or maybe I’m a special kind of crazy. In the end, I may never know.