Simple Mathematics or; The Destroyer
By lovemosiferp on July 02, 2013
Last week, I left ONE dirty egg pan in my sink. For future washing, when at some point scrubbing did not seem so horribly tedious. Two days ago, I glimpsed TWO flies congregated at my bedside lamp, buzzing their ancient histories from minutes past, en route to The End of their little fly lives. Last night, I arrived home from a relaxing day at the beach to FIFTY TRILLION FLIES. Here's a record of that mathematical breakdown: 1 + 2 = FIFTY TRILLION. A word to the wise: egg pans require immediate washing. Lest ye fall victim to the rule-breaking mathematics of the common black fly. Assholes givin' Einstein a headache. The Ishmael in me has a real moral dilemma with the amount of flies that have lost their lives in the last 24 hours. The savage warrior -- painted with inordinate amounts of black eyeshadow and streaked with fly guts -- demands that these bastards be tried and burned at the sink. On a related issue, I was stung by a very angry wasp on Friday afternoon. Sadly, he too lost his life to the insatiable warrior typing before you. RIP, angry buzzing insect. Typically, I am the kind of person that traps insects instead of killing them. Living in various old-and-or-leaky homes has given me a broad understanding of the disgusting life forms on this planet, and not once has my animal brain overtaken the compassionate one in the life-taking department (with the very firm exception of earwigs and those million-legged things that come out of the drain, very obviously because FUCK NO). But after being stung on Friday and experiencing a strange, accompanying fatigue, one that brought with it a slight slurring of speech and oddly altered taste buds, I am hereby converted.. I even have my own patent-pending killing device (courtesy of BH). Despite the overall prickling of skin and sensation that vomiting inevitably looms, I still feel bad. Buddy Holly's amusement-turned-concern over my fly-killing rage brings up the question: why am I so obsessed with making sure that no fly goes un-smited? Maybe it's because of the hoard trapped in the window -- between the screen and the glass -- awaiting their timely death that reminds me the threat has not yet passed. Maybe it's the occasional buzz at the temple, only to disappear as in a swift breeze, that's keeping my nerves on edge. Maybe locusts swarm on the horizon: it's the End of Days. More than likely, it's the feeling that I've been invaded; that this space I hold sacred is out of my control; that the instinctual breeding of a foreign species -- inhibiting this very writing and the work I'd hoped to accomplish today -- is totally and completely my fault. There is so much that I do that gets in my own way. From falling over myself tired at work from obsessing on which celebrities collect taxidermy the night before; to selling organs for paint money because duh, dresses. I've actually never sold an organ. But you thought I was pretty BA for a second there, I can tell. But look, here's the thing: Sam came over last night in the midst of my bloodlust. As I raged and fixated on each metallic glimmer from every nook and cranny, she reminded me of a similar problem she and her roommates had had a few years ago. She explained to me the life cycle of a fly and the way in which it reproduces. Sam reminded me that not only had she experienced the fly invasion, but she had seen their maggoty upbringings. She took my hand calmly as I raised it to throw the traitorous egg pan away, saying "don't throw that out. It's perfectly good! I'll scrub it for you." She then cleaned up my failure and said, "we've all been there. And now you know not to make this mistake in the future." If only I could say I haven't done this before. If only I could say that I'd learned the first time; that I saved myself valuable time and energy; that instead of smearing fly juice on every surface of my apartment I'd spent the last night and day doing things that are actually enjoyable. But I have, and I didn't. All I can hope is that with time the learning becomes less forced and the lessons less morbid. And that the next time I think about letting rotting water sit around for a week, I remember how ominously black flies really are. I'm going to go shower the fly guts and shame out from under my fingernails.