Me too

Of course I have done it. And if you have never done it, there might be something a little bit wrong with you. There IS such a thing as TOO GROSS to merit future proximity to your person - not matter how greatly the grossness quotient could be reduced with hot, soapy water.

(Welcome to my post about throwing away your dishes so you don't have to wash them. And you thought I was talking about my boyfriends. Shame on you! Oh and I will be writing about this topic, inexcusable as it is, in an inexcusably verbose manner. Thank you for stopping by).

Several months ago, we (meaning cat-head and I) went through a difficult period where we could barely breathe without snarfing up a whole nose-hole full of fruit flies. It was a heartbreaking time for us. You can read it about it here.

What we discovered, after we (I) had disposed of all their hairy, wiggling, multi-fanged bodies, is that fruit flies are tenacious of life. They hang on, even without food, water, reliable internet access, and affection or encouragement. They wait for you to change your mind about them. Sort of like has very often happened to me when I get a boyfriend and then I try to unget him. (I tend to date people who don't like to be broken up with. Stop changing the subject every other minute).

So anyway I deloused my tiny cubicle of an apartment and then I discovered the source of the issue: a tea saucer I had left in the sink with the merest tiniest smear of something on it. Yes, I know I should not have left my apartment for three days and neglected to wash the tea saucer. I know I am gross. I know. (Stop acting all like you can't believe anyone would ever even want to date me in the first place and STOP TALKING about how you'd be dying to get broken up with if you mistakenly (mistake! error!) started dating me. Cut that racket out, already).

So I decided, as any sane person would, to wash the tea saucer that had provided (apparently) an attractive breeding opportunity for what probably started out as two lonely fruit flies - until they had all kinds of filthy, dirty, perverted sex under my tea saucer, had baby flies and then proceed to have sex with them, too. One would hope, since they were having sex with their own children, that it was at least a little less filthy dirty and perverted. But you know what? You would obviously hope for that because you are a nice person, but you would also be (obviously) be wrong. Everyone knows that fruit flies are dirty, nasty, whores - lacking, obviously, my very fine and deeply felt moral tastes - you know - the ones that prevent me from dating men who suggest that we should get naked on the first dates. Or even the second. Because as girlfriends go, I am totally lame. (Note: it is usually this sort of creature that is so difficult to get rid of - you know, after he has discovered that he thinks I am lame because I don't think it's such a great idea to engage in certain reproductive behavior with him even though I am not certain I can remember his last name and I am unsure if he even is who he says he is - or is even single. Notable illustrations of this type: Grip Spitzer). But that's not the point and I wish you would stop interrupting me to talk about my lack of a love life. I get that you think I am gross and unlovable, already. Just stop talking about it for half a second. Please.

Anyway, I was waiting for the water to get hot and seeing as I had some time on my hands, I amused myself by using my very active, fine tuned imagination to call up images of fruit fly porn.

(I'll give you a minute to do the same. Go ahead. Do it. Don't make me post photographs of breeding insects. Because I think you know I will totally do it if you don't comply).


And then, of course, obviously, I realized that really, the only sane thing to do was get that tea saucer, smudged or no, out of my cubicle as fast as I could carry it down to the garbage chute and listen to it clang its way down to the basement to be removed by the custodian, placed in a plastic container, bagged, loaded onto a truck, driven, and delivered unto a landfill, probably in New Jersey, where right now it is STILL disgusting because it was at least once the scene of a horrific three day fruit fly orgy.


You know what? Fine. If you insist on continuing to harass me about how I don't have a boyfriend, fine. We can talk about it. Or at any rate we could if you would stop making all that noise and listen to me for a change.


Certain recent events and also something that is at this very minute not in the trash, (even though other people might pretend to think it's gross) has convinced me - even at the cost of my sanity (was I ever all that sane? I mean, take a look at this post - wow) that no matter how much I like to think I am done, I am, in fact, probably not done. And yes, it's because I suddenly remember, as a direct result of one completely not disgusting object,* what is nice about having a boyfriend.

I can't even decide if this is good news. But if you think for one second of one second that I would carry it down to the garbage chute and listen to it clang its way down to the basement to be removed by the custodian, placed in a plastic container, bagged, loaded onto a truck, driven, and delivered unto a landfill, probably in New Jersey - horror! I will not do it, so you can quit acting like it is news to you that I am gross in this particular way. You knew perfectly well what you were doing and I might - get this - just not talk to you until you admit that you knew.

Thank you for reading.

*Don't worry about it if you are not the one person on the planet who knows what it is. I can't tell you. Because if I did then you would KNOW and also you might not get it (although I very much suspect you would) and then we might not feel the same way about each other. Why risk that?