On the way home from visiting a hospitalised relative this afternoon, a fly Atta-ed itself straight into my left eyeball. I could not smell sake on its breath, and have no way of knowing whether it had saluted the rising sun this morning, but its commitment to ending its life on my face was beyond question.
After wiping its remains from my eyeball, I detected the unmistakable odour of some kind of fecal matter on my finger. The little swine had stood on something before taxi-ing for take-off. You can imagine the urgency with which I rushed to the bathroom sink when I got home. All I really need in my life right now is some kind of horribly obscure and completely debilitating brain virus contracted from a suicidal, soap-dodging insect, a suitably Bellerophonian end for a childhood enthusiast for Greek mythology. It was nice knowing you.