I felt like such a pest that I fumigated myself each night before field service, yet still managed to shuffle my sorry arse around the territory. After feebly introducing myself at the door, I'd close by saying, "Please excuse me for existing". Householders would often say, "Apology accepted. Now kindly f*#k off".
At special times such as auxiliary pioneering - I felt an even lowlier blowfly that I carried cannisters of fly spray in the car. Upon my desperate request, fellow JWs would willingly spray me, suit and mis-matching tie included. I'd stumble and bumble my way home, have a cup of mouldy fly-blown soup and come evening, the fumigation process would start all over again.
It took me years to awaken from this pest-ridden lifestyle. Now I fly around, the wind under my wings and catch the glistening rays of door-knobs unknocked and householders unharrassed. Now joyous thoughts fill what's left of my once-sprayed brain such as "Wow, I no longer arrive of doorsteps to even have to f*#k off. How good is that?"
Sales of cans of flysprays and industrial-strength fumingants plummeted after I left the organization - even though, to be fair, brothers and sisters viewed me more as a mosquitoe than blow-fly they refrained from spraying me unless I requested it. I will never forget their buying-into efforts to wipe out every trace of pesthood from my poor, frazzled blow-fly brain. With so many legs, it is hard for me to get down on my grateful knees - but if I could, I would and to the local witnesses who colluded with my attempts to wipe myself out, I'd say, "F*#k off - or I'll spray the living daylights out of you!"