“I’m Not One To…” Let My Hypocrisy Stop Me

Ok, so being a blog writer I also read a lot of blogs. The blogging community is just this whole thing that I find both awesome and intriguing, but every now and then I find blogs to be upsetting or annoying in various ways. The biggest violations usually coming from “mommy” blogs.

Now, there are some mommy blogs that are beautiful and insightful, that give new moms (of which I am not) a foothold on things that could otherwise be terrifying and overwhelming.

There are some that just seem to exist to judge others. And that I just don’t get. These are not true mommy blogs. From here on out they will be known as judgy blogs. Instead of uplifting other mothers or answering difficult questions, they target other mothers with harsh criticism and cruel mockery. My favorite judgy blogs always start with a disclaimer sentence.

I’m not racist but…

I’m not usually very conservative but…

It’s not really my business but….

I’m not one to judge, criticize, bring down, mock…. insert whatever your excuse is here.

Actually, yes. Yes you fucking are.

Now I am not a mom. I read these blogs partially because some of them are just damn good writing, regardless of the topic, and partially because I do kind of hope to be a mom someday. It’s interesting to read about the trials, happy moments, etc. Not to mention, posts on some mommy blogs have led me to read bloggers who are a mom + about a million other awesome things.

So take this with a grain of salt if you wish, but here’s a clue. If you feel the need to start your post off with a disclaimer sentence, not only should you step back and reconsider what you’re writing, but you are a  typing yourself right into being a hypocrit.

Now I’m not one to write biased ranty posts… but what the fuck is your issue?

http://thestir.cafemom.com/entertainment/143550/teen_mom_catelynn_lowells_bong

LINKAGE!

This is the post that set me off. Now, regardless of your feelings on drug use or whatever, I need to say something. Starting off a judging post, with a claim that you don’t judge, makes me instantly skeptical of you. Instantly, I am going to be looking at your post through shit colored glasses because, dude.  You’re judging a young woman. You’re judging her as though this one instant ruins every other achievement in her life. You’re judging her with no clue as to when this photo was really taken. You’re judging her even though you admit to being her age and using drugs. Just because you don’t “usually” judge, if that’s even true, does not make it more ok for you to judge right now.

You’re frigging JUDGING.

Just like because you aren’t “usually” racist, doesn’t make it ok to mock some random form of black/african american/ insert race here culture (or more likely what you perceive to be that culture).

It just doesn’t work.

Knock that shit off, man.

No Muffin Eating

I was once riding the Tarc.

The end. Or at least it would be if I didn’t insist on creating awkward situations everywhere I go. You see, on campus there is this bakery that sells fantastic muffins, and for a treat I bought myself one, a chocolate chip one, meaning to take it with me the next day. I forgot them of course, and upon the ride home realized that it was an extreme possibility that John would eat my precious snackage before I ever got home.

In order to prevent such a catastrophy I called him.

Me: Hey honey, I was just calling to remind you that you can’t eat my muffin.

John: Muffin? There’s muffins here? Where?

Me: NO! You can’t have my muffin damnit.

John: OOOO that looks tasty.

Me: That’s because it is tasty, and you can’t have it. No Muffin for you. You are cut off from the muffin.

John: Just a bite?

Me: No! Stop begging. It’s my muffin and it is sacred to me. If you can’t respect my muffin rules then you obviusly don’t respect me. NO MUFFIN EATING.

It was at this point I realized everyone was staring at me. More than usual. I also realized that it may not sound entirely like I was talking about a literal chocolate chip muffin.

There’s really too many slang words for a vagina.

FUPA Fabulous

This is a conversation I once had with a friend regarding her vagina. We shall call her Poodles.

Poodles: I need to lose weight. I’m getting a FUPA.

Me: What exactly is a FUPA?

Poodles: Fat. Upper. Pussy. Area.

Me: That’s a thing? I didn’t know there was a term for that.

Poodles: It is.

Me: We need to use this to our advantage.

Poodles: My FUPA?

Me: YES! I mean, some people are probably born with Fupas, and what do they do? We have all these people walking around shamed of their FUPA. We could write a self-help book. “Learning to Love Your FUPA”

Poodles: “Living With a Stubborn FUPA”

Me: “FUPAs of the Rich and Famous”

Poodles: “FUPAs Need Love Too”

Me: And what if they want to disguise it? “Hairstyles for the Snazzy FUPA” It could have pictures, and a step-by-step shaving techniques. Spencers would totally sell a FUPA Style Guide. We could design a line of FUPA masking belts, for the discreet FUPA owner.

Poodles: And we could go on Oprah or Dr. Phil, and talk about FUPA Power.

Me: Work the FUPA!

Poodles: What about guys? They probably have this problem too. Fat Upper Dick Area. Makes the penis seem little.

Me: We could start an online dating community! “Handsome FUDAs looking for Sexy FUPAs”

Poodles: YES!!!

Me: and we can make merchandise! T-shirts that say “FUPA Power” and “You Can’t Handle the FUPA”

Poodles: We will be rich! Create a FUPA empire!

At this point I began texting a friend of mine whom we shall name Camo. Instead of telling me I am weird and both of us need therapy, he suggested FUPA phanny packs. And specialized sex toys made to fit a FUDA comfortably.

Brilliant.

The FUPA Brigade, coming to a convention center near you!

MNAAAA Sound Effects Included

So I’m married. I believe I’ve mentioned this once or twice in the past posts, dear readers, but I thought I would be a little more specific.

I’m married to a man most people know as Squid. Who has a rather rough and spotty reputation. He is whole inches shorter than me, and walks with what my sister and I can only refer to as swag.

He is quiet, and in a word, Broody. He looks like satan himself in photos due to the inability to not look pissed off when caught off guard, and random police officers from where he grew up recognize him still today, 6 years later.

He knows way too much about sniper rifles and knives, and will sit unashamed and happily watch a marathon of Sailor Moon. He will even sit through Sex and the City, though he won’t be quite as happy about it.

But absolutely none of that is who he is.

I found this out, and began to fall in love with him, due to rather odd circumstances. One of the things people don’t instantly see about my husband is his silliness. His ability to immitate a Gir voice, to wiggle dance upon command because it makes me laugh, his random acts of lick assault.

Yeah, lick assault.

The first time I really had an epiphany about this man, the thought that I may not be dealing with exactly what I thought I was dealing with, came a random night when we first started dating. We were watching cheesy movies on the SciFi channel, and he, with no warning and in no uncertain terms rolled over and licked my face.

And I mean LICKED. Full on, entire tongue, MNAAAAAA sound effects, licked a trail of saliva up the side of my face damn near to my hairline. And then he burst out laughing.

In shock, and only able to think of one revenge that would counter the spitty assault upon my cheek, I pinned him and licked his eyeball.

Not his eyelid.

His exposed, salty, probably never to be the same, eyeball. And he didn’t dump me for it.

It’s very strange the kinds of things which endear you to a person.

It’s a Vagina, Not a Storage Unit

http://awkwardsexandthecity.blogspot.com/2012/09/welp-i-officially-hate-pill.html

LINKAGE!

This post made me remember just how horrible Birth Control can be. Now I am not on your traditional pill, as my history of migraines makes me a stroke risk (and doesn’t that just make a girl feel sexy). I also didn’t go with the patch because it has permanent hormonal side effects, the shot causes permanent bone loss, weight gain, and stipping of the uteran wall, and most IUD’s can’t be prescribed to someone who has not given birth since a tiny peice can break off and permanently damage your insides.

Instead, I am on the NuvaRing. Now there is nothing really wrong with this. It is an effective birth control, that doesn’t require me to apply what little memory I have left to taking a pill every day at exactly the same time each day.

Me remembering to take a pill each and every day would most assuredly result in my cultivating a fetus inside  my entirely antisocial uterus. Let me explain.

I have no thyroid due to cancer running rampant through my family like a chimpanzi hyped on X would run through the Whole Foods produce department. Therefore I am meant to take a tiny pill, a supplement for all the lovely chemicals a thyroid produces, every day. I do not. I forget it for entire weeks at a time and don’t realize until my muscles seize up and I feel the need for a nap after an hour of consciousness.

I give no fucks.

If I can’t remember a pill that keeps my organs functioning, I won’t remember a pill that stops the function of another.

The problem with Nuva Ring, is that it basically looks like this…

Do you know what else looks like that?

Fucking Jelly Bands! Snap Bracelets! An Emo kid staple that is still refusing to die out, available in just about every color known to man at your nearest mall. When I was 14 and not even remotely considering sex as an extracurricular activity I walked around with these things on my wrists for months on end!

It’s jewelry! What kind of doctor designs birth control to resemble something a middle schooler wears to look hip? If i wanted to accessorize my vagina I’d get a peircing or vajazzle the fucker, I wouldn’t decide to store snap bands by my cervix.

And that is exactly what you fear if you’re relatively young and using one of these things. Because what you really want to hear from your significant other when you’re about to get it on is “Wow you’re so…full of bracelets????”

No.

Just no.

And when you’re older, and have possibly had a kid or two, what do you want your little lovey to come running out of the bathroom wearing?

“Mommy I found a bracelet in the trash! Isn’t it Pretty?”

No. It’s not fuckin pretty. This is a therapy session waiting to happen.

Lemme guess, the same genius who thought up this design is related to the genuis who made orange flavored tylenol and cough drops that looks like cherry lifesavers.

COME ON! It’s bad enough that it’s  2012  and the best fix we can come up with for almost every vagina related issue is “Eh, let’s just shove this up in there.”

Period? Here’s a wad of cotton and piece of string.

Infection? Here’s what looks like a bath bead and an cheap plastic tube.

Ovulating? Here’s a FUCKING BRACELET.

And don’t even get me started on the joys of  speculums.

It is a vagina. Not a storage unit. Can’t we come up with something a little better than this?

I once dated a boy who was terrified of tampons. Not because a girl’s period freaked him out, but because his mother once tried to flush one, and in his tiny little boy mind when he saw that cottony white mass covered in blood, he thought his mother had visciously murdered a baby rabbit.

Are you picturing this?

The last thing we need is for that same boy to pick up a nuvaring off the floor and feel the urge to accessorize.

Sometimes I Weird Myself Out

Have you ever been doing something and stopped for a moment to wonder what it would be like if the objects you used every day actually had personalities and thoughts?

Probably not, because you’re probably far more normal than I am.

BUT, that doesn’t change the fact that inanimate objects having personalities could lead to terribly awkward situations.

What if your keyboard has a bad headache that day? Man you’re an asshole for finishing that ten page essay.

What if your pens are all huge perverts, and by using them your basically giving them a really drawn out (haha, puns!) handjob?

What if your earbuds are actually living organisms that feed solely on your ear wax and those weird crusty bits that form when you don’t get all of the shampoo out of your ear?

I think maybe I’m just going to sit with my hands in my lap and not move or touch anything for the next day or so.

Do any of you ever over think things like this?

Twitch

 

 

It makes her twitch. It flickers on and off, blue shadows crawling across the living room walls. A blue pulse of electricity which calls…

One slices across her leg, three little lines there. Now four.

Just for a second, she looks over at the door.

 Her body jolts with every flash. The blue burns into her eyes. She feels the

scratch scratch

of her pupils stretching wide, pushed open by blue tendrils, held open as they reach for her soul. She leans forward, hugs her knees to her chest.  Feels the

drip drip

from her wrist to her toes. Feels the sticky wetness slide down her foot to the floor.

Hears the floorboards groan for more.

Through the part in her hair, sees the blue slither and writhe. Sees the dead trees twist inside Hide in the pattern of the floor. Hears the

crack crack

of their souls, nailed down and pierced.

She reaches down, cold palm to cold wood. Wonders what its like to have nail through bone.

Anything not to be alone.

“It’s ok. We’re all trapped here.”

And it’s exactly that she fears.

She reaches down, sharp metal, all cool, pointed at the floor. Carving, quick slicing.

Jerking hands. Rough letters crying,

cut cut

into the wood. Defiant words twisting around the room.

She crawls onto the floor, digging nails into grooves.

The door is locked. Locked for her safety. He doesn’t want anyone to get in.

She is his.

But she will do anything to win.

Holds tight to the side of the couch. Purple swirls and stains beneath.

Too much purple collecting at her feet.

Holds on tight to pull herself up high.

Wonders why this body refuses to die.

She sees the blue flash across her stomach. Sees it

seep seep

into her skin. His skin.

Two thin cuts and it peels away.

Not his anymore. She will not stay.

She pushes cold metal to bleeding flesh. Feels the

slice slice

as more rips off fresh.

Tears fight through the lashes. Warm tears release the pain.

It doesn’t matter to her that it’s insane.

She is alone. She is strangled by familiar hands, love tattooed across the knuckles.

Crushes her throat when she calls out for others.

He is not enough. And he is all that is allowed. She hears the

thump thump

of her heart, begging her to stop. Feels the

twitch twitch

of her muscles starting to ache.

She kneels down to the trees.

Why won’t he see?

Palms to their broken souls. Lets the purple

slide slide

into the cracks. It is almost time. He will come home. Home to claim her.

The floorboards cry out, welcoming her.

They will never chain her down. They will never hold her still.

It is only his love which kills.

One more cut and her head drops to the floor.

She will never be anyone’s anymore.

When he comes home it is announced with a

knock knock

of the door. But as he walks in he notices a sick smell.

And he can just barely see her body where she fell.

When he turns on the light he is welcomed with this sight…

Flesh peeled from bone.

And just beside her body was shown

just five feet from the door

etched in red on the floor

Maybe this will make you see,

That you can

never never

keep me.

Picking on Someone’s Outfit is Shallow.

There, I said it. Now, everyone has an opinion. If you don’t like someones outfit fine. Feel free to think that. Feel free to never buy anything remotely resemebling the outfit. I’m fairly certain there are certain people that a spiked collar just DOES NOT flatter. But there is a line, upon crossing, that you become shallow and judgemental.

Ok, so there is a very specific reason why I get angry when someone pops off with “she/he is too old to wear that” or when anyone follows any belief system based soley upon a person’s outfit.

First, being of the more goth/punk variety when it comes to clothing, I have always believed that people have the right to wear whatever they want. In doing so I ran myself head first into more than one brick-solid Wall-O-Judgement. In gradeschool I was once banned from going to the school “dances” unless I wore something that was not black. It didn’t matter that my black clothes covered more of my body than the tiny jean skirts chicks were flitting about in, or that my t-shirt had a fairy on it. In response, my amazing mother bought me an entire outfit of  hot PINK. Head-to-toe pink. They didn’t catch the joke.

In highschool a teacher had the audacity to ask my why I would disrespect myself by wearing Tripp pants. Excuse me? My pants signal a lack of respect for myself? Why…because they aren’t blue? Because they have suspenders on them that are for show instead of functionality? Oh, I get it. It’s the chains…that came with the pants instead of being added on later to hold onto a wallet. In my world, disrespecting myself would be believing that my worth is based on my material possessions, physical presentation, and opinion’s of others.

Every time I go to an interview I dress up in a suit that makes me feel like anything but me, because I know that the person interviewing me is going to base their decision partially on what I’m wearing. It’s sad that people still seem to think my wearing fishnet sleeves somehow has a direct impact on my work ethic, morality, or skill set. It doesn’t. I promise.

This bothers me especially in circumstances that are casual, where what you’re wearing doesn’t signify a lack of respect (you should probly forgo that mini skirt if it’s a funeral). People tug children away from me, sales people follow me nervously around department stores, and salesmen stand in a huddle waiting for someone who looks a bit older to walk through the door.

Random facts about me:

1. I volunteered at Wayside Christian Mission’s Daycare. I loved those kids. We played house and one of them combed my (then exceptionally long hair) with their drool moistened  fingers for nearly a half hour. They did it with love, so I didn’t mind washing my hair a second time that night.

2. I have never stolen anything (except perhaps when I was five. It was a horrible decision that racked my soul with guilt for years to come, even though I didn’t get away with it and was in fact grounded). I do not steal from stores, employers, friends, family, etc.

3. I am not rich, but I pay my bills every damn month and still have cash to spare. I work hard to add to my savings so that when I feel like randomly buying a new couch, I have the ability. I’m 22, and own a house. I get very tired of being over looked because I am not 35, or standing with a man in a fancy suit.

It just gets to me.  There’s about a million things a person could rightfully be criticised for, and wearing a different style is by far one of the most shallow. You really feel like criticising me? I have many flaws for you to aim at.

My refusal to go to therapy or take medication despite obviously being unstable.

I’m incapable of completely shutting a cabinet or drawer, even if there’s only an inch to go. This is obviously just laziness on my part.

I am too short with people on a regular basis.

When my feelings are hurt I am completely irrational. It doesn’t matter if there’s a good reason, or a follow-up apology. I’m hurt. The end.

But you’re gonna point out my ripped jeans? Ok…let’s go with that one. What do my ripped jeans say about me….That I hate letting go of my favorite pair of comfy pants…that I have more important things to spend my money on than new jeans…that I like how they look…that I absolutely hate blue jean shopping and will avoid it like the plague because they all make my hips look fat and those dressing room mirrors are just damn unflattering. Which one of these do you link to my moral and ethical standing as a human being?

And this doesn’t just happen to young people. No, there’s a whole new set of insulting remarks people make to the fully grown adult section of the population.

My mother is the most amazing woman on this planet. Did I mention that already?  My world would be broken without her, and never have I been more willing to curb stomp someone over a pointless remark, than the time she told me she had stopped wearing leggings due to a nasty remark on the part of a coworker.  Apparently by wearing the leggings she was trying to be young?

No, you snide little shithead. She was trying to be comfortable. And cute. And wear something that she liked. My mom works harder than anyone else I’ve ever met, and for anyone to make a comment regarding her attire is completely out of line. You think leggings are only a staple of the teen youth? Piss off. Get your head out of your ass. My mother lost over a 100 pounds and if she wants to sass about in leggings, a tutu, and rainbow platform boots I am gonna root her on, damnit.

Now that I’ve gotten that out of my system. Is there anything someone has judged you on that you found just insane?

 

It Was a Damned Fly Apocolypse

Finally, a little breathing room in this body of mine. For the first time in nearly a month I feel like half a human being (the other half’s a unicorn, but that’s a story for another time).

I just want to say thanks to everyone who gave me uplifting comments and kind words. It was very super appreciated.

So, I was reading the most recent post from ohnoa

http://ohnoa.com/2012/09/the-feng-shui-is-a-little-fuck-you/

LINKAGE!

And it reminded me of just how ridiculously awful renting can be. As a new homeowner, I have to say that it comes with it’s own fatalities, but at least when a dead animal dies under your home, you don’t need ten people’s approval to remove it.

From 18-20 years old I hopped around from apartment to apartment, running into interesting issues with each one. None compared to the Lord of the Flies encounter of the third.

It was a tiny, yet comfy (if you like being shoved up your significant other’s ass) 500 square foot apartment, complete with hardwood floors, new kitchen appliances, and a fly invasion of approximately 2000.

Let me explain.

It was a lovely crisp fall weekend. the sounds of children playing were drifting through the air, accompanied by fall leaves in the brightest of oranges, reds, and yellows. It was a time of rest, and expectation.

But none of this was to be enjoyed by the story’s harried protagonist, for in the past week her nostrils had been accosted by the  faint yet ever-growing deadthing smell in her apartment. She had  checked under the couches, and inside the closets to be sure none of her dear cats had spontaneously perished. She had checked high, and she had checked low for the source of the smell. Inside shoes, and beneath rugs. Around table legs, and atop of the fridge. Finding nothing, she simple lit scented candles.

As the days passed the smell grew faint, but alas our protagonist was not meant to rest. For as the smell did drift away, a loud buzzing did penetrate her humble abode.  It was loud enough to prevail against the blasting gun sounds of Resident Evil 5 (which she so enjoyed), and persistent enough to make her want to pull out her dear ear drums with a corkscrew she once purchased in an attempt to make herself enjoy wine. The wine tasted like lettuce, and thus the corkscrew remained useless and dusty in her junk drawer.

Incensed by this annoying sound, our brave hero armed herself with a broom and stalked about her kitchen.  The buzzing seemed to be coming from the large picture window, which she always kept the blinds down on due to it facing directly into the large picture window of her neighbor. Her neighbor was large and furry, and once did that odd eyebrow wiggle thing at her, making her most uncomfortable. 

As she approached, cautious yet intent, the buzzing grew louder. Reaching one trembling hand out to grasp the pullstring, our dashing protagonist wondered if perhaps she was losing her mind. With one swift pull the blind was raised, and she was faced with the most dreadful of horrors.

Before her stood a wall of flies, convulsing and buzzing across the surface of the window, like a solid living thing. Before she could realize her error in raising the blind, a wave of flies melted off the wall and took flight about her small (no longer comfy) apartment.

To be honest, it was like something from a cheesey SciFi movie.

They buzzed through the air in swooping motions, terrifying the cats, who had once bravely battled one, two, or even three flies in their day, but were no match for a hord of this magnitude. They hid beneath the couch as our dear protagonist swung her broom wildly through the air, screaming in horror, knocking the chandelier nearly off the ceiling.

Confused and in shock, our embattled protagonist ducked beneath the looming hord and searched through her cabinets for something of use…a weapon of mass fly destruction. To her luck, she had a can of bug spray, and though it was meant to kill wasps (normally a much more terrifying enemy) she prayed it would do the trick.

Armed with a can of bug spray in one hand, a broom in the other, she sprayed and swatted, sprayed and smooshed, sprayed and screamed in abstract horror, at the flies now invading her boxes of cerial and left-over fetuccini.

Her dear cats, emboldened by her refusal to give up and become the fly’s food, came to her aid, pouncing and chewing on any fly who so dare land for more than two seconds.

It was a night of much bravery for everyone, except perhaps the guy who lived with our protagonist, and mostly just stood back going “Oh My God, LOOK AT THEM ALL!”

And so ends my tail of the Fly Apocolypse. Except not really, because this happened almost every night until that damned deadthing decomposed enough that flies were no longer interested in laying their fly eggs in its corpse. It was disgusting, and to this day if I hear a buzzing sound that can’t easily be traced back to something electronic i must fight the urge to flail compulsively.

Everyone has an apartment horror story. Care to share yours?

It Was a Damned Fly Apocolypse

Finally, a little breathing room in this body of mine. For the first time in nearly a month I feel like half a human being (the other half’s a unicorn, but that’s a story for another time).

I just want to say thanks to everyone who gave me uplifting comments and kind words. It was very super appreciated.

So, I was reading the most recent post from ohnoa

http://ohnoa.com/2012/09/the-feng-shui-is-a-little-fuck-you/

LINKAGE!

And it reminded me of just how ridiculously awful renting can be. As a new homeowner, I have to say that it comes with it’s own fatalities, but at least when a dead animal dies under your home, you don’t need ten people’s approval to remove it.

From 18-20 years old I hopped around from apartment to apartment, running into interesting issues with each one. None compared to the Lord of the Flies encounter of the third.

It was a tiny, yet comfy (if you like being shoved up your significant other’s ass) 500 square foot apartment, complete with hardwood floors, new kitchen appliances, and a fly invasion of approximately 2000.

Let me explain.

It was a lovely crisp fall weekend. the sounds of children playing were drifting through the air, accompanied by fall leaves in the brightest of oranges, reds, and yellows. It was a time of rest, and expectation.

But none of this was to be enjoyed by the story’s harried protagonist, for in the past week her nostrils had been accosted by the  faint yet ever-growing deadthing smell in her apartment. She had  checked under the couches, and inside the closets to be sure none of her dear cats had spontaneously perished. She had checked high, and she had checked low for the source of the smell. Inside shoes, and beneath rugs. Around table legs, and atop of the fridge. Finding nothing, she simple lit scented candles.

As the days passed the smell grew faint, but alas our protagonist was not meant to rest. For as the smell did drift away, a loud buzzing did penetrate her humble abode.  It was loud enough to prevail against the blasting gun sounds of Resident Evil 5 (which she so enjoyed), and persistent enough to make her want to pull out her dear ear drums with a corkscrew she once purchased in an attempt to make herself enjoy wine. The wine tasted like lettuce, and thus the corkscrew remained useless and dusty in her junk drawer.

Incensed by this annoying sound, our brave hero armed herself with a broom and stalked about her kitchen.  The buzzing seemed to be coming from the large picture window, which she always kept the blinds down on due to it facing directly into the large picture window of her neighbor. Her neighbor was large and furry, and once did that odd eyebrow wiggle thing at her, making her most uncomfortable. 

As she approached, cautious yet intent, the buzzing grew louder. Reaching one trembling hand out to grasp the pullstring, our dashing protagonist wondered if perhaps she was losing her mind. With one swift pull the blind was raised, and she was faced with the most dreadful of horrors.

Before her stood a wall of flies, convulsing and buzzing across the surface of the window, like a solid living thing. Before she could realize her error in raising the blind, a wave of flies melted off the wall and took flight about her small (no longer comfy) apartment.

To be honest, it was like something from a cheesey SciFi movie.

They buzzed through the air in swooping motions, terrifying the cats, who had once bravely battled one, two, or even three flies in their day, but were no match for a hord of this magnitude. They hid beneath the couch as our dear protagonist swung her broom wildly through the air, screaming in horror, knocking the chandelier nearly off the ceiling.

Confused and in shock, our embattled protagonist ducked beneath the looming hord and searched through her cabinets for something of use…a weapon of mass fly destruction. To her luck, she had a can of bug spray, and though it was meant to kill wasps (normally a much more terrifying enemy) she prayed it would do the trick.

Armed with a can of bug spray in one hand, a broom in the other, she sprayed and swatted, sprayed and smooshed, sprayed and screamed in abstract horror, at the flies now invading her boxes of cerial and left-over fetuccini.

Her dear cats, emboldened by her refusal to give up and become the fly’s food, came to her aid, pouncing and chewing on any fly who so dare land for more than two seconds.

It was a night of much bravery for everyone, except perhaps the guy who lived with our protagonist, and mostly just stood back going “Oh My God, LOOK AT THEM ALL!”

And so ends my tail of the Fly Apocolypse. Except not really, because this happened almost every night until that damned deadthing decomposed enough that flies were no longer interested in laying their fly eggs in its corpse. It was disgusting, and to this day if I hear a buzzing sound that can’t easily be traced back to something electronic i must fight the urge to flail compulsively.

Everyone has an apartment horror story. Care to share yours?