That's what my wife called me last night.
After pausing a moment — while my brain processed images of an ink pen, an ink well, a roach scuttling through an ink well and leaving inky roach tracks across a counter top, an octopus spewing forth ink for camouflage or to confuse predators, an octopus eating a roach and then spewing forth ink in disgust, a marijuana roach with ink on it, a "roach clip" dipped in ink, and a few more I can't remember now — I questioned her with a well-though-out and articulate response of, "Huh?"
She said again, more slowly, "You're being an ink roach!"
I pondered, making sure I hadn't mis-heard or missed a syllable, and tried to figure just what the HELL she was talking about.
We were lying in bed, reading. (Now this is a family blog, so don't be getting any lurid ideas. We were READING BOOKS, okay?)
I had just moved my left foot slightly in her direction and stretched out my leg to prevent what felt like an incipient leg cramp. (Have you ever had leg cramps in bed? They're no fun, I assure you. Sometimes, if it's a calf cramp you have to straighten out your leg and pull your toes up to stretch out the calf. And when the cramps are REALLY bad, you then have to quickly relax that stretch or your thigh will start to cramp!)
Anyway, I finally had to ask her to please explain what she meant by that remark. I mean, it might have been critical, but then again it MIGHT have been complimentary (hey, anything's possible).
She turned her head toward me, smiled sweetly, batted her eyes and said, "You're ink roaching on my space."
I got up, went into the bathroom to throw up, and then returned to my reading.