I was on the phone with Eric and, for what seems like the millionth time this month, a fly flew right into my apartment. I know what you’re thinking– didn’t you JUST post about killing a fly the other day? How is your apartment THAT disgusting that you have this bad a fly problem?
To clarify, I don’t have a fly PROBLEM. But inevitably, every time I open my balcony sliding door (which is the only “window” in my apartment), at least one fly finds its way in and then NEVER. FUCKING. LEAVES.
Last week I spent seven days with the same fly. I pretty much accepted on day 5 that we were roommates now, so I gave him a name (“Fly Guy”….it had been a long day) and I started to contemplate ways I could make the apartment more comfortable for him. Then, just as I’m googling “Do flies like pop music?” Fly Guy landed right in front of me on the coffee table. So I did what any good roommate would do– I beat him repeatedly with a People magazine while screaming “WHO LIVES HERE NOW, BITCH?!?!” and then texted Eric “I killed that motherfucking fly!” with no less than 14 gold trophy emojis.
Anyway, this is all to say, the flies have been an issue.
So an hour ago on the phone, when the fly came in and I screamed, “I can’t handle ANOTHER FLY!”, Eric agreed that this was, in fact, the most stressful situation a human being could possibly find herself in. He then suggested an old trick that works every time– covering a plate in honey. The flies, he promised, would instantly be attracted to it, fly on top, and get stuck. “But you have to cover the WHOLE plate in a thick coat of honey. The more surface area, the better. Don’t just dabble it on there.” I promised I would do it correctly.
Thrilled that I had a new, trusted kill strategy under my belt, I set up the trap and have been excitedly staring at it for the past hour, waiting for the dramatic death-by-honey scene to unfold.
It has just occurred to me that Eric is fucking with me.