With apologies to Virginia Woolf and her seminal essay, “The Death of the Moth.”**
I noticed a wasp banging its head against the window. I sprayed it with Windex and smashed it to death with a big, yellow, plastic cup that read Dickey’s Barbeque Pit. To put it out of its misery, and mine.
**Footnote 1: In the original, the hopeful-yet-fatalistic Woolf ruminates on the vagaries of life and death while witnessing the plight of a “moth fluttering from side to side of his square of the window-pane . . . Watching him, it seemed as if a fiber, very thin but pure, of the enormous energy of the world had been thrust into his frail and diminutive body.”