I hate things that fly. Insects, birds, aeroplanes. Not a big fan of Superman either. I have just arrived home from work to be welcomed by a fly that has chosen its final resting place to be my kitchen floor. A cheery note to end the glorious evening full of men drinking themselves into such a stupor that they vomited all over themselves. I go home when I am sick.These guys decided to then drink the glasses full of vomit, and then vomit again. I love working behind a bar.
Flies freak me out. I was a young teenager equipped with the almighty I-kill-everything-flies-wasps-lions-too spray, pretending to be James Bond, and sprayed the fly in my bedroom for a good ten minutes. To my horror this fly did not die, instead I can only describe it as giving birth to gazillions of white larvae that then wiggled all over my windowsill. I found it hard to eat rice after that. Since that moment of trauma I have been particularly averse to all insects. I hate killing them as I now believe they are all invincible, and instead jump and scream in the hope that they will magically disappear to another planet and live happily with all the other insects I have wished an unlucky fate. Right now there is a mosquito in my kitchen with me. I picked up a glass and caught it, ignoring the urge to wake up my boyfriend who would be incredibly unimpressed with my girlishness, and set it free out the window. Whilst doing this I accidentally stood on the already-dead fly on my floor. And the mosquito has happily flown back into my kitchen.
I am sorry to the little fly I killed all those years ago. Although I'm sure I didn't actually harm it; it's been fortified with super-powers from the omnipotent spray, strengthening an army of all creatures great and small to carry out a lofty vengeance on me. The Superman-Fly. And that's why I don't like Superman.
The Fake Brunette
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