Headless horsefly
There are these strange little flies around my apartment that I've never seen before.
Small, less than a quarter inch long, and like brown with some type of stripes on their big wings, folded into a triangle when at rest. I want to say small feathery antennae. I've lived in quite a few dives and never run into the things before. Maybe that's the thing, that they're some kind of nice neighborhood pest. My own and a small few buildings aside, I live in what's called a nice neighborhood. Ancient single family homes three storeys with like roof-notch little porches.
And then there's my dinged-out flophouse, asbestos tiles and paint not-flaking-but-entirely-flaked-off-of the porch, paperboard walls thrown up and slopshed with paint of undignified tones. Retarded upstairs man yelling at his (apparently Normal) girlfriend and their rotten boxer howling when they're not home to fight, kid across the hall wearing his black&redbulls sweatsuit every day, howling back at his own dog and taking his mouse for rolls around the neighborhood in a mini-hamsterball. The pay-washer broken often as not, broken swingplates opposed to each and every doorknob.
I was showing it to li'l B, whom the brides brought over last night. He hadn't seen the place yet after my six months there, and showed up last night for the same reason as he'd previously stayed away, viz., the lad. They do some fighting, those boys. Not least of all when they're trying to quit smoking, as they normally are. Brief talk, no gossip really. He asked me for a story and I couldn't find one. Funny, that.
Some people drink to forget; I drink because I'll forget anyway.
Small, less than a quarter inch long, and like brown with some type of stripes on their big wings, folded into a triangle when at rest. I want to say small feathery antennae. I've lived in quite a few dives and never run into the things before. Maybe that's the thing, that they're some kind of nice neighborhood pest. My own and a small few buildings aside, I live in what's called a nice neighborhood. Ancient single family homes three storeys with like roof-notch little porches.
And then there's my dinged-out flophouse, asbestos tiles and paint not-flaking-but-entirely-flaked-off-of the porch, paperboard walls thrown up and slopshed with paint of undignified tones. Retarded upstairs man yelling at his (apparently Normal) girlfriend and their rotten boxer howling when they're not home to fight, kid across the hall wearing his black&redbulls sweatsuit every day, howling back at his own dog and taking his mouse for rolls around the neighborhood in a mini-hamsterball. The pay-washer broken often as not, broken swingplates opposed to each and every doorknob.
I was showing it to li'l B, whom the brides brought over last night. He hadn't seen the place yet after my six months there, and showed up last night for the same reason as he'd previously stayed away, viz., the lad. They do some fighting, those boys. Not least of all when they're trying to quit smoking, as they normally are. Brief talk, no gossip really. He asked me for a story and I couldn't find one. Funny, that.
Some people drink to forget; I drink because I'll forget anyway.
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