The fly is dead. Funeral set for Monday morning.

Finally, after approximately one hundred billion months of relentless Febreezing and accidentally smacking the dog across the face with a rolled up Oriental Trading catalog, I can say with at least 93% certainty that Michael Myers the fly is dead.

(But is Michael Myers ever really dead?)

Yes, he is dead.

(But is he?)

A mock-funeral, in which my husband and I will mock the fly as he is laid to rest in our garbage can, is set for Monday.

(Yes, but where is the fly's body?)

I just have to locate the body and remove it.

(Michael Myers cannot be killed. Michael Myers is unkillable.)

Look, I killed him, I swear to you I killed him. He is dead, I killed him. Just ask my husband, who was there. (Asleep, but there.) I knocked over everything on my night-table and accidentally punched my husband in the nipple (so I can confirm he was at least partially awake) and then I swear I saw the fly plummet to his death. I saw him fall and not get back up. The fly is dead, THE FLY IS DEAD! I DID IT! I KILLED HIM!

(But did you?)

Yes? I think so? I AM DEFINITELY ALMOST POSITIVE.

(Michael Myers The Fly lives! He lives!)

Okay, so he's probably alive.

DAMN IT.