I was pooping when they found me, the deer flies. From hell. And now they won't leave me alone. How I do hate them in a sadistic, violent way.
Of the dozens I have killed, some I have tortured before finally doing them in, plucking off their wings, wrenching their limbs from their still-quivering bodies, before the coup de grâce: a quick flick of the forefinger that sends their beady little heads hurtling through the air towards parts unknown, while their abdomens remain resolutely clenched, partly squished, between my fingers.
Part of me feels bad for deriving satisfaction (if not outright pleasure) from their pain and ultimate deaths.
Another part of me thinks they can go fuck themselves, and that if I could waterboard them, I would.
It's a messed up world. At least I have the company of some (enormous) dragonflies for lunch.
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July 17, cont'd
I was taking a shit when they found me. Deer flies. This time the brought backup: mosquitos.
Despite my strategically advantageous catholing position—perched on the edge of yet another moss-covered boulder—this time I was anihilated.
The deer flies ran a perfect interference, distracting me with a series of feints, while the mosquitos went straight for my exposed backside.
Quickly defeated, I fled into the forrest, leaving a trail of blood and feces in my wake...
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July 18,
Aaarrrghh! Why is it always when I'm pooping!?!
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