Hey, baby

I've made some headway in my war with the fruit flies that have inhabited my dwelling. I read online that by putting a peeled banana in a bowl, covering it with plastic wrap and then poking holes in said plastic wrap, you'll have an effective fruit fly trap. Before I went for a run yesterday, I constructed the trap; when I returned a while later, the bowl was teeming with fruit flies. That's what you get, you god damned sons of bitches!
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I'm still waiting to hear back from the guy who's fixing my guitar. I had a dream last night that I went to his shop to check it's status, and he admitted that he completely forgot that he was supposed to do work on it. I woke up balling. Not balling, actually--I was being silly--more like soft weeping.
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I'm going to hang out with Brianna tonight. She came over from California to attend our friend Mary's wedding this weekend and it struck me when I saw her the other day just how long it had been since we were face to face. It seems the older I get, the more common it is for long periods of time to pass between visits with friends, close or otherwise. And the weird thing is, it won't feel like a lot of time has passed. It's a development I'm coming to terms with.
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There's a song I keep hearing from the warehouse radio at work and it's one of the most uninspired and annoying pieces of work I've ever heard. It consists of some nasally guy rapping about being at the club (wow, what a stroke of genius to refer to the "club" in a song that will most likely be played at a club. No one does that). And after he's said his peace about the club, he sees a woman he's attracted to and decides to pursue her affections. He approaches her and says "Hey, baby". About seventy fucking times he says this throughout the course of the track. "Hey bay-bay. Hey, bay-bay. Hey, bay-bay". Ad nauseum.

Whether it's because I'm dull-witted, which is very possible, or because my brain, as a means of protecting itself, blocked it out, for the longest time I couldn't remember the hook of the song. And the only reason I wanted to remember it was so I could share it with Amanda to see if she was familiar with it. But every time I'd try to tell her about it, I'd come up empty. The best I could do was say in frustration, " Okay, the guy talks about being at the club and then he say something over and over and over again; something like,' Da-da-dahh. Da-da-dahh. Da-da-dahh'."

Yesterday morning, Amanda called me on her way to work and I could hear the song in the background coming from the car radio. "The second I heard it, I knew this was the song you were telling me about!", she exclaimed. We laughed about the overall shittiness of the song and I told her how much of a relief it was that I finally had someone to share this horror with me. As far as she was concerned, I had just infected her with Hepatitis. Sorry, Amanda.