The Dook of Ick

There are gnats and fruit flies and actual flies in my cube.
They are always here.
I sit right by the door, so I'm sure that they come in from the outside and reside in the closest cubicle: mine.

There was a mass email sent out to the office.
"We know there is a fly problem. We're trying to take care of it."

But sometimes, I feel like it's me.
And I might not think that way if my hygiene were really up to snuff.
If I showered everyday...
If I washed my hair...
...my teeth...
...my pits...
...my junk...
...I probably wouldn't be as self-conscious about it as I am now.

Because now, right now, sitting here, softly scenting the acidity of my own crotch,
And watching a small fruit fly walk across my desk, away from me, as if it had just crawled off my balls and was high on the filth of my nethers...
Right now, with that fresh in my mind, I'm certain the flies are here because of me.
I'm Pigpen from The Peanuts cartoon.
I'm Jabba the Hut.
I'm the Baron from Dune.
I'm a freeze-frame of a blackhead being popped in the bathroom right before the splatter hits the mirror.
I'm gross.
And nature is rewarding me for my slovenly behaviors.
And I'm making the office a miserable place with my odors and plaque and the such and like.

Don't worry.
Even as I type that, I know it's not true.
But it feels true sometimes.
Shit.
Whatever.