Bug War, Part 2

So apparently the fruit flies in my kitchen thought they were, like, all *above* heeding my warnings about promised carnage. A full five days after my last written declaration, I would still wake up in the morning and walk into the kitchen only to find a small whirling cloud hovering in the general vicinity of the sink. Apparently my preemptive measures (taking out the trash every day, washing everything immediately and putting it away, running the drain and disposal through a baking soda cleanse every night) were ineffective. And my sporadically deployed shock n' awe tactics (ie, rampaging around my kitchen thwapping a dishtowel against random fly resting surfaces while screaming, "AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!") were less shocking and awesome than hoped. *

Did you think that you were better than me, flies? Is that what it was?

Really. Look at you. You're small. With the brain the size of a...a...so small it's barely even a brain! Did you think that your miniscule bundle of nerve receptors-- a bundle that can do little more than mediate your unsophisticated desire for day old banana peels- could stand up to ME? I went to COLLEGE, fruit flies! I took a whole CLASS on how you work. You want psychological warfare? I'll GIVE YOU psychological warfare. I can get inside your mind-- see how you think. Read you. Like. A. Book.

And that's not all...no, that's not all.

Because, you see, I also have the internet. That's right. Direct access to an entire conceptual community drawn together soley by its common belief in eradicating fruit flies from kitchens for the general good of mankind. That's heavy shit! You didn't have a chance!

It didn't even take long. A second, maybe, to pull out a bottle from the recycling bag-- and another to put a little vinegar in the bottom and to rub some dish soap around the top.

And you crawled right into my trap, flies. All of you.


:::contemptuous headshake:::

pshtt...


you guys are so dumb...







*To everyone except the two little neighbor kids that live across the way.

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