There is a fly who chose his final resting less than an inch above my rearview mirror. I have named him Robert, since he died nameless, and I have to have something to call him when I'm talking to him in transit. For something several thousandths my size, he provides good company.
I am aware this is the action or actions of an insane person, but I take comfort my psychosis is already padded and delightfully comforted by my rampant alcoholism. Directing my inner monologue towards a dead musca domestica stuck to the roof of my car lets me get all the sillies out.
Ideas always sound good in your head, so sometimes you have to say them out loud to the hardened exoskeletal structure of a house fly, occasionally making eye contact with its now 400 some lifeless compound eyes. Yeah, it's in that scenario things can sound ridiculous. "Move to San Francisco? What WAS I thinking?"
Robert is therapy, something I'd suggest to many, many of the people in my life. I enjoy his company because he doesn't talk much, and when he does its me talking for him. It's odd behavior, but what's that saying about sending a killer to catch a killer? Or maybe it's a chef to kill a baker. Someone google that, I'm still too steamed up about the superbowl. I was trying to establish some crazy fixing crazy methodology, but my incoherent rants usually do that on their own.
Reminders for class: What we all need is someone out of their mind.
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