I trapped a fly in my window yesterday. Perhaps "in my window" is an incorrect term. I waited for it so land on my window then shut the blinds as quickly and nimbly as Peter the Rabbit (I can't remember if he ever escaped that farmer with the pitchfork...). Flies are too stupid to fly between the gaps in the blinds, you see.
I woke up this morning and the first thing I saw was a fly on my bedside table. Damn, it landed on the donut I had bought yesterday. Should I dispose? They say that if a fly lands on a surface for more than 10 seconds, it's defecating. To these naysayers, I say, "Phffft, you should lick the surface and build up your immunity." By now, I think I could swim in the sewers with an open mouth and come out unscathed. So maybe I will eat that donut...
I left the fly to flutter aimlessly in my room. It's a sad life, being an insect. The first object in my morning routine is to guzzle a cup of water as quickly as I could. I imagine that when you drink a beverage super quickly, it skims the gunk off your oesophagus. In this line of thought, my morning beverage was not only refreshing and hydrating but also cleaning. Now, my oesophagus is clean as a whistle.
To my desk I did venture for a morning reverie in front of my technology of choice. Oh wait, what's that? I wondered if that fly I did so abhor (it fluttered around my head for a ridiculous 20 minutes) and ensnared was still alive. Should I peak behind the blinds?
I leaned forward, trying to peek through the gaps in the blinds. Outside, it was a sunny day and I saw little else than the grass of my backyard and a sky too blue to function.
A sound!
Could that have been the rampant fluttering of a fly's wings? They say a fly's wings beat 200 to 2000 times a second. I wonder how a fly could possibly fly in such a spastic manner without it's wings simply falling... off... Maybe just a little closer now. The picture in my head was of the fly, silent and unmoving, (huzzah!) lying on the window sill. It would be a gratuitous start to the day.
A little closer now.
(What's that, the mad beating of a delicate wing?)
More now, the tip of my head nearly touching the blind.
(Did you see that? A flash of black across my vision)
Now, so close that the blinds shuffled a little, uncomfortable with my proximity.
(Did you smell that?)
And then, quite suddenly because I had become quite acclimatized to the vision of a dead and mundane fly, a swarm of black, buzzing things in my face. Streams and streams of ferocious flies coming through the gaps in the blinds (evolution?!).
What's that? I felt a nibbling on my cheek. I clapped my hand there and pulled the fly from the flesh and, coming with the wrinkly, quivering body, was a morsel of my cheek. More and more, they attached themselves to me. I felt their trembling wings, more energetic than ever, against my skin then deeper and deeper in my body as they tore away layer after layer of skin.
As I tried fruitlessly to swat them off, nearly as mad as the flies themselves, I caught a glimpse of the skeleton of what must've been a rat lying on the windowsill. It was devoid of flesh except for a few straggly strips hanging here and there.
Ah!
True story, bitches.
J
Oh shite! This made my day. From a tweet by Jared Padalecki. The accompanying caption: "Don't tell Rory, but I think I saw Dean and Tristan having coffee together today!"
