Linking my terrible weekend to Lolita

I was brainstorming about topics to cover in my blog post tonight, but I've been a little preoccupied lately due to the bat that kept hiding itself my closet all weekend. Eventually I found a way to relate the bat to something else besides my absolute terror (I just hate things that fly, and come on, bats are scary). Basically here is what happened: I saw a bat in my living room on Saturday evening, then I locked myself in my roommate's room, where I had been reading. My roommate refused to come home because he didn't believe me, and when I finally got a hold of animal control they refused to come because I could no longer tell them exactly where the bat was. Turns out it had been hiding in my closet, which I didn't find out until the next night as I was about to turn out my light. Once again I was home alone, but this time I was in a closed room with a winged rat swooping around my ceiling. I managed to escape, and after a huge ordeal got animal control at my apartment around 3:30 AM. Then the guy couldn't find the bat, even though it was closed off in my room. Finally I got the pest control man from my apartment complex to come today, find the bat, and put it in a little box to take away. Throughout this whole time I was simply terrified. I've never been more scared in my life than when I was hiding under my comforter listening to the sound of wings right above my head (no matter how pathetic that is). But still, before the man  left with my bat, I asked him what he was going to do with it. He said he was going to take it somewhere else and release it, which I was glad to hear. Even after all that I went through, I didn't want the bat to get hurt. It's not his fault that he accidentally got inside my room, and I'm sure he wanted to escape just as I badly as I wanted him out. Unfortunately, the animal control people called me later saying that they needed the bat to make sure it doesn't  have rabies, and I'm pretty sure that process entails euthanasia and some sort of bat lobotomy. 

I feel like Humbert is a kind of bat, to both the reader and to Lolita. He is horrible and scary, yet somehow he still convinces us that he can't help who he is. His graceful prose makes him less frightening, and even Lolita isn't too scarred by him to contact him for help when she's older. No matter what terrible things he has done, Lolita does not try to punish him. Humbert's point of writing is to convince someone else that he isn't completely rotten. I'm almost on his side.