Tonight will go down in my personal bug history as the night of the mothsacre.
I came home from a disappointing meeting with the pizza school director. The course will cost me 2000 euros, and to be perfectly honest… I’m not serious enough about wanting to learn. And I definitely don’t have the necessary desire to work in a pizzeria. It would have been cool, but it’s a huge amount of money to someone who wants to move country and has bills coming out of her ears…
Also, I googled pizza chef wages, and my current job pays a hellofa lot better.
Upsetting though, I was so eager…. like I always am with my little whims for self improvement. If it was half that, I’d go for it. But two grand, when my bank balance now registers no grand… I’d be a damn fool to spend my non existent money so I could acquire a skill to impress people at dinner parties I will never host.
So I dragged my dejected ass home, and those three moth bastards were flying into my face.
In a fit of rage I decided, I will not take this crap any more, in my own home. I pay the fucking mortgage, you punk ass moth bastards!
I clutched my new Ikea catalogue and began swatting ferociously. BAM against the kitchen tiles. BAM BAM BAM… the bastard won’t die. I gritted my teeth and hunted them around the room like Rambo, picking them off one by one, pulling jars out of cupboard to dislodge the cowardly… mercilessly reclaiming my dominion over the property.
It was after about 20 moths that I realised, there are lots of moths. There always seem to be three or four flitting around, and I keep killing them and there are always more. I feel like Tipi Hedren in the birds, except without being physically injured or half as attractive and without there being a big strong man around to faint into his arms.
I have to fend for myself.
My Ikea catalogue is covered in moth guts, luckily too small to gross me out that much. Ok I am grossed out, and feeling itchy as hell, but I keep attacking.
I’m convinced they must have gotten into one of the flour jars or the rice or something so I pull out all my tins and jars from the cupboard as more and more moths relinquish their hiding places.
There are a few corpses in the flour and rice, so I unceremoniously dump everything in a big black sack. FUCK recycling, this is war.
Occasionally I catch myself actually yelling “DIE MOTH SCUM!” and “HOW DO YOU LIKE THAT, BITCHES!” and once, when a moth wouldn’t die and it was half crushed and still fluttering desperately, and I had whacked it against the door like 15 times, I let slip a “I’m so fucking sorry, I’m sorry, just die, I’m sorry!” I worry about the strain this endeavour is putting on my mental state.
After an hour of this, I google “loads of tiny moths in my house what the fuck”
and discover they may be drain flies, growing from gunk in the drains.
This makes sense, because I have been away for a while and the drains haven’t been used, so any gunk residing there has been unmolested by water flow… plus I never wash the dishes by hand anyway.
So I skip out to Lidl and purchase drain cleaner, bleach, and some super toxic household cleaning shit.
As I’m leaving I lug the massive black sack full of rubbish and moth carcasses and jars of rice and stuff down to the bins. A poster stuck to the door of the building warns that everyone has to recycle or the building risks a hefty fine.
For a moment I am indignant and presume that’s meant as a dig at me personally. Then I realise, yeah I’m in the process of throwing out a black sack full of recyclables, so it’s fair enough. I’m not going through my rubbish now though, fuck that.
Next time, maybe.
On the way back I pass the bar on the corner, where men of various (mostly old) ages hang out while watching Italian footballers dive on the grass clutching their noses, on the big screen. I walk past with my head down, it’s always awkward because they see me coming a mile away and always divert attention in my direction and I don’t know where to look… and this time I’m rushing past and a REALLY HOT guy says “good evening!” as I pass him and I have just enough time to check he’s super hot, turn my scowl into a flicker of a smile and reply a garbled good evening back. Then the remaining old men I pass also wish me a good evening. Now I don’t know if this is just politeness… it’s probably just politeness.
I’m in the zone though, with the moth-icide, so I can’t get distracted by hotties who might just be polite, and even if they did want to jump my bones, it’s not like I can just saunter down to the bar and nonchalantly pipe up with “so… how about those Lazio feckers?”
I get in the door, stick on a frozen pizza (don’t say anything) and squish a few other idiot moths who still haven’t figured out that today is the fucking moth rapture. Or moth ragnarok, depending on their beliefs.
This is it now, biological warfare. 2 litres of drain cleaner and a shitload of bleach later, these moths better retreat the fuck out of my home.
I shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, I shall defend my apartment, whatever the cost may be,
I shall fight on the drains,
I shall fight on the landing grounds,
I shall fight in the cupboards,
I shall fight in the bedroom;
I shall never surrender.