Dear Fruit Flies,
Y’all are a bunch of ass holes. Little tiny ass holes! I have been patient since May and yet, you’re still here. Last month, I found adorable little plastic apples that held a poison and had holes in the top. The packaging claimed to kill you and all my problems would be solved. Yet after days of sitting by my sink, only your dumbest comrades (roughly 3) fell for the faux apple.
I have become a Goddamn Mr. Miyagi as of late. At any given moment, I can be found in my kitchen or my living room, clapping like the lady from the clap on and off commercial, attempting to kill you. I have about a 23% success rate. Every time I do kill one of you, I make sure you know you’re meeting your maker at that moment.
Your presence makes me feel like my house is dirty. Last week, one of your buddies was crawling on my toothbrush. My toothbrush for cryin’ out loud! Do you not have boundaries? You try to get in my wine, my salad and any dish I’m making. Come on man!
I’m so used to killing you that I’ve become a savage. Saturday, I rode with friends to the Columbus Crew game. As my friend was deep in conversation in the front seat and her young son directly behind her, I saw a large spider dangling down from her chair. I knew it would either get her or her son. And do you know what I did? Instinctively, I killed it. WITH MY BARE HANDS! I’ve struggled in the past to kill a spider with a shoe or a tissue. And now I’m killing you with my bare hands? Sure, I demanded a wet wipe immediately after killing it and rubbed my hand ferociously to get the spider corpse off my hand but you get the idea.
I respectively ask that you vacate my home by 9/5/19. It’s starting to cool down and you’re going to die anyway so why not just leave now? Please leave. Your corpses are not protein in my wine. You are taunting me and I don’t appreciate it. Please go away.