Similarly to an episode of dark and moody meth drama Breaking Bad, I spent a considerable portion of Monday night getting infuriated by a fly. The little bugger wasn’t posing any threat to the integrity of my exploits in chemistry, though. Instead I just wanted to go to sleep, but couldn’t due to the fact that there was a fucking fly in the same room.
Let’s get something straight here, I’m not scared of flies. Quite frankly I could smack one into oblivion with my bare palm if only the bastards weren’t so damned fast causing me to pummel the wardrobe with nothing but a dull hand pain to show for my efforts. The point is, it was late at night (well, late enough for me to be getting to sleep on a work night) and I just wanted to retire. Retire to bed, that is, not retire from work. Although having said that I’ve been looking forward to retirement since before I started working. I digress. I always do.
Like any normal person (but then again, what is normal?), when I go to sleep, I don’t particularly want to share the same space as something erratically flapping about and disturbing my slumber with incessant noises. If I did, I’d probably be in some sort of relationship, although saying that implies that I’m still single by choice. Digressing. Thanks to the fly’s speed, both catching and killing options swiftly went out the window, just like the fly itself didn’t. The only thing I had left was leaving the bedroom door open and attempting to shoo it out of the gaping hole. This feat was eventually achieved and he (or she, but I assume “he” because I’m a twat and so’s the fly, so ergo…) became the rest of the house’s problem.
Unlike the chem-lab exploits of Resting Bitch Face and Constant Bitch Mouth (the official names of the main Breaking Bad characters [well, in my mind they are {it’s been a while since I did brackets within brackets}]), I didn’t spend numerous hours trapped in stand-off with a fly (fly-off? [more brackets? {BRACKETS, BITCH!}]) although it certainly felt like it. What really amounted to little more that seven-and-a-half minutes felt much longer due to the apparently pressing nature that every minute I have to deal with it is another minute of sleep stolen from me. It also didn’t help that during the middle of this, a rogue moth made its way through an open window somewhere, simply because it’s actually getting warm outside and I had a light on at night. Tell you what, if the meth people had to deal with moth contamination too, that storyline could’ve easily lasted a season and a half.
The moth was little trouble though. He (I assume) sat there like the lazy twat most guys are, thank goodness, giving me enough time to fetch some toilet paper from the bathroom, whisper my quiet “sorry” to the indefensible bit of life I’m about to crush and flush the bugger away. Hell, I would’ve even had enough time to weave a patchwork quilt had I had the resources or the energy to even be bothered with it. All the while, the fly managed to keep himself with the four walls until I ushered him into the hallway.
Then on Tuesday night, it rained forever and no such similar problem arose. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have quality blue …ahem… “patchwork quilts” to peddle on the streets.
For the last couple of months, this one’s been swirling around in the background of my listening habits, hanging on in the periphery of my aurality (that’s not even a thing but it really should be). So why did I not include this earlier? Well, to be honest I feel I may have made a couple of mistakes in my musical choices over the past eighteen weeks. They still exist, listed in the virtual reality of this digitally composed output, but I worry I’ve chosen them too soon after repeat listens slowly destroying their integrity and better songs stepping forward. Still, it’s a record of what I thought I liked at a time when I thought I liked it, which was the original point anyway.
At least this track has survived the “repeat listen” test and come through to this side without me wanting to rip my ears off, only to realise the ear holes still remain. What can I say? Funky guitar riff, funky funeral imagery. I don’t suppose I’d like to be remembered by this particular song when the Great Almighty shoves me into a wooden box, but if I could have a procession with this much swagger, I think I’d be okay with that. Except I wouldn’t. I’d be dead and incapable of appreciating such a spectacle.
The Kills – Doing It To Death
Jamie Walsh 
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