Another day, another exercise in futility

Battling a fly. This is what it's come down to.

It was brazenly flying around my face in the bathroom, unable to find the two-inch hole ripped in the window screen. I tried to whip-kill it with an unnamed family member's swimsuit (shh, no one tell) and thought I had gotten it. But it resurrected himself during my shower. Flying on half power, but still alive.

Confronted by its will to live, I could no longer kill. So I tried to steer it toward the two-inch hole. I could not grab it because my hands were wet. It circled ever so close to freedom, but could not find it. Our frustration was in perfect sync -- the fly, slowly walking across the screen wondering how to get out, and me, cursing and wishing the fly understood English. It didn't seem to matter that flies only live for days, and that this one may have only had one day left to live, should it have escaped.

Finally, I gave up, only after I began to turn pruny in the shower and after my frustration had grown to wanting to kill it again. Only at that point did I realize the fly had to be someone I knew, just had to be. And it was just another one of her damn, dirty tricks.