My Stupid Fly Adventure

This article is not epic in length, nor is it particularly well-crafted, but it took me several hours to write. It was also entirely written while huddling in a knit blanket in eighty degree weather, with no air conditioning on. There is a perfectly logical explanation for this.

          You know how in the winter, you're all, "I wish it was summer, because it's really cold, and I want to go outside without wearing a jacket?" Well, there's one thing you don't remember about summer: IT's FULL OF FUCKING INSECTS.

          While I sit her typing this I my eyes dart around suspiciously, hoping to be prepared for the next attack of... THE GIANT ANNOYING FLY FROM HELL.

          It's not buzzing, so I suppose it is not technically the most annoying that it could be, but it is HUGE. It is roughly the size of a horse, or the country of Belgium. Actually, it may not be a fly at all. What do I look like, an etymologist? (Obviously not, or I'd know the correct term is entomologist).

          Although buzzing is annoying, there is a disadvantage to the silent fly: it possesses the power of stealth. It keeps popping out unexpectedly from behind the lamp, startlingly close to my head and my typing fingers, whereupon I scream and jump up.

          Now, this is a fairly normal human reaction, and a fairly normal fly reaction to this reaction would be to fly in a different direction, avoiding the loud, sudden-moving, giant animal. Not this fly. This fly insists on flying itself DIRECTLY AT ME. It never fails. As soon as it sees me, in its sadistic fly way, it takes it upon itself to fly top-speed full-throttle damn-the-torpedoes at ME. It doesn't matter which direction I jump in when I leap, screaming, to my feet; it finds me and it goes for me. Still yelling, I jump and hop and run around, forced to do a bizarre dance to try to outsmart the fly.

          As soon as I've managed to get out of its line of sight, it seems to forget about me and trundles along on its merry way. I stand there looking at the air where it used to be, unsure whether it's safe to go about my normal activities.

          Eventually, I do, my eyes still searching the air for signs of movement, causing me to lurch at the slightest shift of dust particles. I slap myself repeatedly, feeling imagined crawling sensations. For awhile, I don't see the fly anywhere. Even if I watch it carefully after it finally begins to travel in a direction other than straight at me, it disappears at some point behind a chair or in a dark corner or something. After a long period of non-fly-seeing, I start thinking, "Hey, it's been awhile since the fly's last attack. Maybe it's flown its little fly self out the door, which is wide open, by the way, preventing me from putting on the air conditioning. I'd like to air condition the room, especially since I've wrapped myself in a blanket to keep the fly from ever directly touching my skin, but I still cling to that hope that at some point the fly will leave the room. And maybe now it has."

          But, of course, it hasn't. The fly has just been biding its time, calculating the moment when I'll least expect it, whereupon it zooms out at me and the whole process begins again. OVER AND OVER AND OVER.

          During the writing of this article, I have been interrupted by the horrid creature at least ten times, probably more. Normally I would exaggerate about something like this, but I promise you that this time, I am not. This fly sucks.

          Sometimes after the fly has come and gone I continue to stand there, shouting in frustration because I know this vicious cycle will never, ever end. I don't shout words, just generic shout sounds: "AAAAA" and "BAAAH" and "WAAAAA" and "GAAAAA". Sometimes I add an underwhelming statement of dismay: "I hate this fly!" "I wish it would just go away!" It never seems to listen, though. Similarly, on the rare occasions when I actually see the fly coming ahead of time, instead of being ambushed from behind the lamp, I begin to yell "ah" sounds it ("BAAH! BAAAAAH!", or perhaps a rapid-fire "WAABAAGAATAA!"), trying to express my displeasure that it has returned. It rarely if ever seems to understand.

          I can only imagine what the other residents of the house would think of these proceedings if they weren't in Scotland right now.

          I know what you're thinking: "If the fly won't leave the room, why don't you?" Well, first of all, this is my favorite room in the house. It has the TV and the laptop (and the air conditioning, though, as I've covered, the fly has rendered that temporarily moot). Secondly, I already did. The fly first reared its ugly self while I was eating dinner, and after it became apparent that it wasn't going to go away anytime soon, I went and sat out on the "company couch" in the hall. Let me tell you, there's few things more stupid-feeling than dejectedly eating rapidly cooling tomato pizza and listening to the strains of The Cosby Show from the next room, while being the only person in the house. I was exiled by a fly. I was flyziled. Or exflyled.

          I decided after I put away my dishes that I was not going to let that fly run my life and choose my rooms of habitation. My whims take precedence over those of local insects; my parents made that agreement when they signed the mortgage. I went back, determined to draw an entire article out of the minor misfortune. Thank God I have to write these things. I doubt I would otherwise find a way to regard a Tuesday night insect-related annoyance as gift from the gods. I really did have no article for today!

          But, Fly, you've served your purpose now, so you can go away. Hear?