I live in a basement. That always sounds worse than it is- my room is located in the basement. Better. However just like any disgusting basement you know it's humid and damp in the summer and the bugs just fuckin' love it here. I mostly deal with the silver fish. Yeah those creepy pieces of shit that couldn't move faster. I'd move that quickly too if I had over fifty legs. Anyhow, those are my roommates and you might be thinking to yourself, "That is horrendous, how do you live like that?" Well the silver fish are absolutely terrifying, but they tend to stay put on my walls. I rarely see them on the floor or on my furniture. Which believe it or not kind of makes that okay. This does not mean me and the silver fish have not had our rendezvous in my bed. And no, I am not okay with it. But there's something about the silver fish that I've made peace with. I don't jump to killing them in fact I hardly jump at all anymore when I see them. Maybe I've made my mind that knowing they eat the other bugs that they're on my side put me at ease. The other side of that is there are so many silver fish in my room that their diet of other bugs must be good and plenty. Remaining at unease.
This rant of bugs in my room was not at random. Today was 88 degrees or something near that. I imagine like zombies from the grave the bugs arose from the winter and they want to take over my room. There was a bee in this basement and then down to thick of it there was a fly I described as nickel sized complete with hyperbole flying around my room.
The beginning of the fly was me sitting in bed minding my own business when this fly, this thick, fat, slow moving, buzzing fly flew right in front of my face. I let it go until its incessant buzzing needed punishment. It flew in my closet so I shut the door. I figured it could die in there- I just won't open the door for days. I heard the buzzing again. That snake must have gone underneath the door, what kind of fly is this?! It was indeed a mother fucker. I called up Kevin and he tried to get me to forget about the fly. He said, "Don't let the fly control your life." Which could have been potentially good advice if he understood that I cannot co-exist with this bumbly fucker of a fly. When I told him to support me in killing the mother fucker he told me to use some sort of spray. So with hairspray in one hand and the October issue of SPIN in the other I was at war. I really want to address that this fly was really a mother fucker. I knocked the sucker out with a magazine and I couldn't find the body. I would lose sight of the fly and I have awful directional hearing to follow its buzz. So there was battle time and then the fly retreated hiding somewhere leaving me to wait for its buzz behind my ear. I eventually had to lure this fly with lights and then after at least a half an hour of battle this fly was finally conquered. I sprayed his fucking face with my hair product and he went down. To which I continued to spray. I knew I had him. I finally understood why people are stabbed over ten times. I must have slammed the magazine on the floor with my primitive might around six to seven times while grunting and laughing.
I killed the mother fucker. I would do it again.
Dear god take me back to Langhorne.
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