flies suck. i hate flies like Taco Bell hates MacDonalds- ( a LOT)
i hate flies like Warren G hates listening to the latest Snoop Dog record.
i hate them like a bloated pirate hates a wench kicking him in the belly
here it is :
yesterday i sit down to the desk of glory to write, or do homework, or taste the rainbow or something,
and a Fly – out of nowhere- lands on my arm. He jumps a foot back, and all those Fly-lands-on-you feelings start racing up my skin. he lands on me again like a Fat girl on the small guy at the party, and I’m swatting and twitching like I’m in an insane asylum.
the little bits of my own hair that touch my face start to morph into flies attacking me, and i constantly rub odd parts of my skin that sense suspicious vibrations.
i am instantly aware that i have a fly in the room, and i won’t get squat done until that little skin terrorist is dead.
i grab a paper and he disappears like a beat child. i am ok with this, except for his landing on my legs and feet when i try to type again and i start to shake and Jump like a Pentecostal at the Azuza Street Revival.
i went and cried and rocked back and forth on the sofa.
today he showed up again, but lingered just a TAD too long on some mail from West America Bank, and i dropped him like a Japanese Bomb on Pearl Harbor.
the fly is dead.
but still the hair on my body shifts and i can feel invisible bugs landing on me and moving around on my skin.
i need a hammer i can squash into my face.
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