The Fly

There I was. Cowering in the doorway with my bag of reasonably priced groceries tucked unceremoniously under my arm. Trembling. Staring. Not yet fully comprehending the magnitude of the security breach. The horror that had overtaken my room.

I knew something had to be done. And fast. So I threw the groceries down onto my bed, and I just started swatting and clapping and smacking and squishing and pounding and flapping and whacking and mushing. Throwing caution to the wind. Like an angry baboon with territorial issues. (My neighbors probably think I'm mentally unstable. Or that I participate in tribal war dances.)

But I didn't care. It was as if something primal had come over me. It started out as a simple measure to rid my room of this infestation, and manifested into something much much more than that. I started calculating my moves to maximize deaths per swat. I had mapped out coordinates and pinpointed 4 or 5 popular "resting locations" where striking was most lucrative.

I knew I was out of control when I stopped wiping my hands before killing again.

On this day, I straight up murdered upwards of 50 gnats.

It was gnat genocide. It was gnatocide.

Moral of the story: Don't leave your window open, even if the blind is closed.