Sometimes, when David fights Goliath--Goliath wins.
Somewhere in mid-Michigan, a battle rages on...
Missy: ARGH there is a HUGE moth in here, and I tried to kill it but I mean, it was HUGE. And I kept whapping at it with a book and it kept eluding me, and I was like, seriously, ninja-style fighting it, whipping that book around like nunchucks and making involuntary noises like I was throwing punches. And now it landed on one of my photo shelves and I'm too short to see it and a little too grossed out to try for another kill. But I'm keeping my eye on that shelf. SHIT. Hang on.
Terri: LOL, I am imagining the battle.
Missy: Now it's behind the TV. What the fuck. This thing is... wily. With flapping wings it's, like, practically the size of a silver dollar.
Terri: Holy crap!
Missy: Yeah, you can see my hesitance to let it get near me. You would've been proud. I had the fighter's stance and everything. I was all bobbin' and weavin' and shit. I just, y'know, don't have wings, so I'm at a bit of a disadvantage. It is not a fair fight.
Terri: LOL, true, but nice job anyway.
Missy: Thanks. When it comes out again -- and I have no doubt that it will -- I'll be ready. Gary Larson's Cows of Our Planet, be prepared to take down our foe.
Okay, so I may have overestimated the size of it, but when it's flying around a 12'x20' living room that I'm trying to read in, it seems fairly large.
Here is a nice (low-quality zoomed-in cell-phone) picture of my conquered foe, alongside my ring to give you an idea of size. I'm aware that it was not, nor would it ever, hurt me, but I stand by the logic I presented to Terri regarding the necessity of its death: moths eat clothing, I love clothing, ergo, I hate moths.
RIP, moth. And a word to the wise: don't fuck with a clotheshorse.
Missy: ARGH there is a HUGE moth in here, and I tried to kill it but I mean, it was HUGE. And I kept whapping at it with a book and it kept eluding me, and I was like, seriously, ninja-style fighting it, whipping that book around like nunchucks and making involuntary noises like I was throwing punches. And now it landed on one of my photo shelves and I'm too short to see it and a little too grossed out to try for another kill. But I'm keeping my eye on that shelf. SHIT. Hang on.
Terri: LOL, I am imagining the battle.
Missy: Now it's behind the TV. What the fuck. This thing is... wily. With flapping wings it's, like, practically the size of a silver dollar.
Terri: Holy crap!
Missy: Yeah, you can see my hesitance to let it get near me. You would've been proud. I had the fighter's stance and everything. I was all bobbin' and weavin' and shit. I just, y'know, don't have wings, so I'm at a bit of a disadvantage. It is not a fair fight.
Terri: LOL, true, but nice job anyway.
Missy: Thanks. When it comes out again -- and I have no doubt that it will -- I'll be ready. Gary Larson's Cows of Our Planet, be prepared to take down our foe.
Okay, so I may have overestimated the size of it, but when it's flying around a 12'x20' living room that I'm trying to read in, it seems fairly large.
Here is a nice (low-quality zoomed-in cell-phone) picture of my conquered foe, alongside my ring to give you an idea of size. I'm aware that it was not, nor would it ever, hurt me, but I stand by the logic I presented to Terri regarding the necessity of its death: moths eat clothing, I love clothing, ergo, I hate moths.
RIP, moth. And a word to the wise: don't fuck with a clotheshorse.