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Wednesday |
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It's sick and pathetic--
I get annoyed by insects, hang ribbon fly paper and watch sentient creatures wave feelers, arms, legs as they starve over days stuck to jaundiced chandeliers of death. Tonight they got me back. A kamikaze fly--hard-shelled and red, tiny enough to waltz through screen squares--flew straight into my eye with a vengeance. Yet I can't stop killing them. They bug me. They are slow and so easy to crush against my skin or wherever they happen to land. It's not satisfying to hear that crunch but it lets one know the job is done. I roll the corpses like boogers between fingertips and drop them on the table. Then the ants come and carry them away, each a miniature Hercules hefting a load many times its own size and weight as I sit fat and content atop the food chain, peeling wrappers, mixing powders to nourish my brain. "Duck eggs," neighbor and coworker Tim says. Bigger, smarter, more varied diet than hens. "You are what you eat," he avers. In that case I'm Clif Bars and Emergen-C, the butt end of a giant salami and Irish cheese, factory farmed chicken eggs and a case of Beck's stretched out to last more than a week. I smash another fly and feed it to the ants. I hope nothing in the night is coming for me. |