The date is 7 November 2014.
There is a fruitfly in the kitchen I cannot kill. I’ve swatted, punched, and even tried to hand-vac.
If I am ever diagnosed as lost-his-5h!+ (this is a clinical term), you’ll know it all started today.
I’m in portland, alone in the apartment, standing on the back of the sofa, wearing nothing but running shorts, trying to kill flies with a spray bottle of windex when Emily walks in and the only thing I can say to being caught in this state is, “you’re catching me at the height if my psychosis.”
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