A rather large moth fluttered into the torchiere lamp while I worked at my desk this evening. I saw the moth, I saw the lamp, and I just knew my writing session would end with smoke. It wouldn’t be exaggerating to say I nearly dove for the ceiling fan switch as soon as the moth headed for the lamp. The fan is running now. It isn’t helping.
A logical person might wonder why I didn’t instead dive for the lamp. Perhaps I could have turned it off, and saved myself the lingering stench of death? Well, sure. But then I’d still have a moth fluttering around, wouldn’t I? A moth planning to wait until I fell asleep so that it could land on my face and lay eggs in my eyeballs. To which I say, burn you little bastard.
Still. It’s not as bad as the piece of Gene Simmons I was “invited” to sniff last Friday.