Reason #37 Why I Can’t Write Today
By Jackie Leavitt
The flies are drawn to my computer screen like moths to the front porch light. They buzz by my head, circle their destination and land on the computer’s metal lip. They crawl an inch down and try to blend into the black edges like ninjas, but I see them lurking. I don’t understand their obsession with this one object. I swat them away again. Are they drawn by the smell of my buttery finger smudges on the keyboard, residue from my morning toast, or the coffee aromas wafting from my nearby empty mug? It’s an infuriating mystery.
Yesterday I became so irate that I sprayed bug-killing chemicals directly onto my computer screen, aiming at the two flies that darted away at just the right moment. They twirled around the living room for a minute like swing-dance partners and landed right back on the computer. Bastards.
They taunt me, right at eye level as I try to type out heartfelt prose. Nothing like a fly using its front legs to clean its tiny elephant nose to pull you out of a promising writing moment. The fly moves to wiping its rear, and then in a yogic pose, its wings. I’m almost willing to smash my computer if it means I can destroy that arrogant asshole. It rubs its hands in evil pleasure.
It’s wintertime, and the flies, mosquitos and moths should not be swarming my residence like this. I accepted the fly situation in the summer – hordes of them stormed our house in the morning like cavalry. Big fat ones – the military cargo plane of flies. They would bounce off the windows all day trying to escape until they died in the night. We woke to find their bodies curled up on the carpet, dry and brittle. But these winter flies – dive-bombing past my head for my screen – I swear they are immortal, especially the ones that escaped yesterday’s death spray.
I should close my computer and put an end to this. I don’t want to give them the satisfaction of enjoying their favorite perch. With these pirouetting jerks, there’s no point in writing today. I might as well do laundry.