They buzz into my bedroom from the cool balcony cloaked in shadow due to the alluring glow of a lamplight. Bustling and swarming around their resting place, I wield my hand and scatter the little fuckers. I crush the diminutive little fuckers that crawl; she can’t truly see those ones. The superior beasts flutter to elevated corners and she gazes at me desperately, beseeching me for help because she cannot reach. I sympathetically seize a chair and tap my finger on the little creature so that it weakens and falls, right into her willing black paws. The fucker I knocked down is still fighting and it quivers upward in the air, just enough so that she can bound up and smash it back down to the floor, gobble it, and spit it back out. She bats it around and it slides on the hardwood floor powerlessly, losing vigor. It clutches the wall one final time and she leaps to bring it back down to earth. She plants it in her mouth again, contemplative, and then ingests the little fucker. She then lies there, comprehending that she has lost her plaything. She begs with me to bring her companion back, but I cannot. She must deal with what she has done. Then she spots a fly and we commence the amusement once more. So it goes in our small circle of life; these little fuckers’ diminutive, wretched lives ending on the hardwood floor of this apartment at the hands of a kitten, although they contributed to the raising and amusement of a living being. They did not just pour their entire survival into biting people and buzzing around. Although they died at the hands of a sadistic bitch and a cruel, spoiled feline, these lost souls spent their last moments contributing to the world in a constructive way and doing their part in the only way an irritating little insect can. And if insects had feelings, which they probably don’t, I imagine that they would feel pretty damn good about that.
buminacan 