Dear Fly

Dear Fly,                                                                      

Why do you bother me?  Do you have nothing else to do? 

I don’t wear hair spray, I’ve used my Sure antiperspirant, and I’m allergic to most perfumes and body lotions, so I shouldn’t interest you.  I’m sure there’s plenty of doggy fecal matter in yards scattered from here to Seattle for you to crawl over, plus cow pies and meadow muffins, as well as lots of road kill along the highways calling your name.  Can’t you find some trash to excite you?

If you think I intend to go to sleep while you’re around, you’re fruity.  I know what you do at night.  You delight in waiting until innocent people fall asleep so you can take sadistic pleasure in walking on their faces with your poopy fly’s feet. 

What’s your purpose in life?  Be honest and admit it – you don’t have any.  There’s absolutely no reason for your existence.  Ogden Nash even wrote a poem about you entitled simply, “The Fly” --  “God in his wisdom made the fly/ And then forgot to tell us why.”

So, Mr. Fly, why don’t you buzz off?  You’re not welcome here.

                                                                                    Cindy