(no subject)
I have something to confess, dear diary. Proud? Uncertain. But three bugs died by my hand last night. The first: a large fly. We played cat and mouse until I triumphantly squashed the opponent with a nearby dollar store notepad (a Christmas-themed dog). A wave of relief and joy for the success of the battle, yet sadness for the fallen hero.
Alas, he was avenged by his son, fly junior. Fly junior, though not as developed as his papa, held great strength while irritating the living fuck out of me. Easily put down in the same fashion as his kin before, this fly showed an excellent capacity for a rebound, sliding a few feet until the dreaded tissue came to sail him to his grave in the Ikea wastebasket of no return.
Peace was restored until the unthinkable: the emergence of the mystic centipede. Appearing almost from thin air, it slithered from its lair somewhere in the ceiling. One of God's more homely creatures, I eased the suffering of its (hopefully) lonely existences, having (again, hopefully) helped exterminate others of its kind. Insecticide was in the cards tonight. Insecticide, mad desire, and 1 Old Style tall boy.
Alas, he was avenged by his son, fly junior. Fly junior, though not as developed as his papa, held great strength while irritating the living fuck out of me. Easily put down in the same fashion as his kin before, this fly showed an excellent capacity for a rebound, sliding a few feet until the dreaded tissue came to sail him to his grave in the Ikea wastebasket of no return.
Peace was restored until the unthinkable: the emergence of the mystic centipede. Appearing almost from thin air, it slithered from its lair somewhere in the ceiling. One of God's more homely creatures, I eased the suffering of its (hopefully) lonely existences, having (again, hopefully) helped exterminate others of its kind. Insecticide was in the cards tonight. Insecticide, mad desire, and 1 Old Style tall boy.