A Day in the Glamorous Life of the Legendary Fly

I got to sleep late last night, but was still entreated to a 7:30am teeth showing growl in my face by my pet coyote. She doesn’t concern herself with my schedule and couldn’t care less about my hangovers or disparate sleeping habits. At 7:30am, every day, rain or shine, I am awoken by the angriest animal in the world, growling ferociously, with gnarling teeth and a constant chattering of teeth, until I cede to her and go for a nice long fucking walk.

During this walk, she attacks everyone she sees, including inanimate objects, such as parked cars and stop signs.

When I got home I made myself some coffee, had some oatmeal, and entertained myself by reading a book. I do not read motivational books, or shitty finance books. I only read classics and I never read papered back. If and when I am reading, they are old, leather-bound, antique classics — written by the greats.

Shortly thereafter, I hopped in the car and drove an hour and half to visit my Mother and sister for lunch. It was a dimly lit second rate Italian eatery in Bay Ridge with unseasoned meatballs and greasy calamari. Instead of ordering a dish, I opted for a few appetizers, a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon, and proceeded to enter scavenger-predator mode — feeding off the slops of others. Since I am on a diet, currently cutting down to 12% body fat, I was quite judicious with my lunch.

While in Brooklyn, I took advantage and stopped by the legendary Villabate Alba bakery, located just blocks away from my old apartment in Bensonhurt. I lived there from 13-18 years old. While growing up, I never thought of this bakery as legendary, but after all of the Italians moved out and were replaced by Chinese — its lore and status has increased, especially since the quality of their goods have stood the test of time, and also because all of the Italians from Brooklyn are either dead, in jail, or in Staten Island.

I bought $60 worth of sweets for the kids and then quickly peeled the fuck off in my car, dodging some faggot who tried to panhandle me for heroin money.

At around 7pm, I went to pick up my in-laws in Manhattan. Since they are currently in between cars, they had no mode of transport to my house, other than the filthy trains. I arrived at 8pm and got home at 10:30pm, an arduous day of driving and listening to rap music at very high decibels, much to the chagrin of Mrs. Fly.

Just a short while ago, I made a large jug of coffee, ate a half cannoli, and walked the fucking dogs in my backyard. I can’t walk them in the streets this time of night without my neighbors thinking I’m insane or a burglar.

All week I’ve been thinking about my recently departed friend. I can’t seem to shake the finality of his suicide and the tragic turn of events that had transpired since he chose to become addicted to drugs. His family is in ruins and I’m not sure there’s much anyone can do. There was no funeral, no service, just a cremation, two Facebook posts by his brother, two from his friends, and poof — he’s gone. People mourned him for a day and are now back to posting pics of their disgusting food and exercise routines at the gym. Forty one years of life and over 700 friends on Facebook, and all he got for it was 4 Facebook tributes and instruction by his brother to light a candle and donate to an animal shelter — because his brother liked fucking dogs.

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