Dear bugs that keep coming into my apartment, particularly the flies,

Bugs, I have read Thoreau, who ponders ant battles and wonders if he has any natural right to bother his Brute Neighbors by building his cabin in the middle of their woods. As a child, I even marveled at a certain convent of nuns nearby because my grandma told me that one of their tenants required such a respect for life that they would not even kill the spiders in their laundry room. But, bugs, I am not Thoreau, and I am not a nun. And I want you out of my house.

Bugs, it's summer. And my apartment gets hot. That means that I am going to open the window; and, although the screen does have a few bug-sized holes, I would like to make it perfectly clear that this is NOT an invitation for you to come in, stretch your legs, blink your beady little eyes, make yourself at home, and get germs all freaking over my shit. Especially not if you can fly. Look-- there's a great big world out there for you to whiz around in, full of beautiful sunshine and fresh air. Frankly, it's just selfish and greedy of you if you think you need my air space on top of all that you have been given already. Avarice is a sin, bugs. A deadly, deadly sin. A sin that will not go unpunished in the house of Kat.

So that's it, bugs. Be warned. From now on, there will be no more chasing on my part-- no more desperate attempts to swish you out of the door, or catch you under a glass so that you may be humanely released outside into your rightful habitat. It's on, bugs. The next time I open my window, I'll be standing in front of it wielding a loaded can of Raid and a swatter, with a fistful of tissues jammed into my back pocket in the event that I need to mercilessly crush you and flush your sorry remains down the toilet.

Take note, bugs. This is MY house.

-Kat