War

Someone is smashing things against the wall downstairs in my apartment.

It's very violent (a fitting couple to the shrieking sirens outside the window).

Each smash is accompanied by a horrified shriek.

You might wonder why I am doing nothing to help or hinder the smashings.

It's because Erica and Gina (two of my four housemates) have declared war on our recent infestation--of flies.

And I would say I told you so because we never take out the trash,

but that would mean I never take out the trash. And I do. Because I can smell it. From my room.

We don't know where the flies came from. But there are about fifty large green, bug-eyed freaks nesting on the ceiling of our common room.


Erica and Heather refuse to sleep at home. Gina is smashing them by hand. I'm trying to purge my lungs of my innovative 409 frenzy (involving random spurting of the cleaning solution on the bugs when they landed anywhere. It didn't kill. Just stunned. Proven when I nailed a bugger and walked away as he lay screaming on his back, only to return moments later and find--he'd flown off).

Yes, I know. Fly hunting is the most enthralling thing you've read about this week. Probably more enthralling than the story about the four shootings down the street from me--last night. Probably more enthralling than the stabbing on the Fruitvale BART--ten minutes from me. Probably. Probably.

I don't know how I feel about Oakland.