September 4, 2003
The Death of the Fly
A week or two ago, a fly got into my apartment. Nothing major, it was just doing the annoying fly-stuff: Buzzing around while I'm making dinner, landing on the TV screen, that sort of stuff. I went to bed and didn't think about it.
Apparently, this fly liked living dangerously. I woke up at 5:00 in the morning to the sound of a weed-whacker being held over my head. It's amazing, really, how loud a fly can seem when it's right outside your ear. I took a swat at him and he left. OK, back to sleep. Just... driffting... off...
Mumble-grumble-goddamn fly *swat*
I was tired; I didn't hit him. This went on for about an hour. I finally gave up and went to sleep on the couch. I got an hour's worth of sleep. The fly was just resting.
Another half-hour of failed swatting followed by almost drifting off later, I went back to bed. The little bastard finally let me sleep in peace for a couple hours and I woke up at a more normal-like 9:30.
Fast forward a couple hours. I'm cranky because I didn't get a lot of sleep. But I don't really think too much of it because I was kinda groggy when my six-legged invader woke me up.
I take my shower and as I'm standing at the sink I see some movement out the corner of my eye. And then it all comes back to me. And I am filled with murderous rage.
I reach down and grab my old sneakers, still drying out from rafting on the Yough. And I swat the hell out of that fly. Remember the scene from Office Space with the copier in the field? It looked something like that.
But the fly was dead.
And, it would seem, I'm too easily amused.