There is a fly in my house.
And I am pissed.
You see, I hate flies.
I can do nothing but cringe whenever I think of where this fly might have been. Was it sitting on a dead carcass? On crap?
Oh fabulous, and now it's on my kitchen table.
I am going to have to go to bed soon. And it is going to torture me, knowing that this fly is in my house, landing on things I don't know about while I am asleep.
I tried to kill it about five times, each time missing by thismuch. Hubba-hubba attempted to lecture me on the physics of proper fly killing, and I almost whacked him with the rolled up magazine.
I am probably going to have dreams about contaminated things and buzzing noises. Which is much worse than the dream I had last night, where I was a patient on ER, and George Clooney was my doctor. It was great until Hubba-hubba woke me up by brushing his teeth, which is just the wrong way to get woken up, if you ask me.
I am weird, I know that.
And that's why you like me so much.