Why, at about this time of year is there one solitary fly that refuses to die or be downed? No amount of swiping and splatting seems to phase it. Each time you fight the battle, you try hitting it with all your available weaponry: journals, jacket, towel, magazines, bare hands, books (particlularly: Story of O by Pauline Reage) This huge, juicy, black fly comes to buzz around your head; the fly with the secret of eternal life, perhaps. Sometimes, it'll bring along a good friend or two, in hope to feast on some delicious fruits rotting in my room. Maybe I should name It as Itty, please don't ask why (maybe it's a children's thing) but Itty is alive and well and buzzing around here like a very annoying old friend.