I can’t stand the damn fluttering. No matter where I go in the house, I can still hear it, as if there are no walls between it and me. The only good thing is that it will stop soon. At least I think it will. Moths have really short life spans, don’t they?
My torment is the result of a simple misunderstanding. There was a community potluck dinner last week. I only went there because of a woman that I wanted to mention that I saved children from pirates to, so that she would shiver me timbers. I didn’t want to take the chance of royally screwing up another box of mac ‘n chesse, so I figured Jack of All Moths always has plenty of food laying around. I let myself in through a freshly broken back door and took a cocktail shrimp platter that he wasn’t going to use. As I was leaving, the little jerk has the gull to return to his home. I told him how rude it was of him to interrupt my liberation of his possibly ill-gotten shrimp, and then I broke his jaw with my foot.
While, let’s just say that the frigid potluck bitch sent me back to port to raise the mizenmast without a first mate. When I got home, I found it under siege by Jack’s army of moths. I have always told him that it should be an air force of moths, but some people are just stupid. Since, my house isn’t made from wool sweaters or corrugated cardboard, they just flutter around it. From the first sentence you can probably image that it’s not a few moths.
If this damn fluttering doesn’t stop soon, I’m going to write Jack a very stern letter, and when the moths die, I’m going to nail gun it to his face. I sure hope he can read with blood in his eyes.
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