An open letter to a fruitfly
I understand your proclivity to hang around the office. Things can get pretty messy around here and when it gets busy it's pretty likely a banana or apple will sit too long and be a haven for you and your hundred other friends that have infested the office.
And I hope you enjoyed your stay up until the past few days when I cleaned things up a bit and you probably saw you and your offsprings lifespan come to a grinding halt.
I know we have been at odds, and nothing was more obvious than when I took a swipe at you as you dive-bombed the hot cup of coffee I'd just poured for myself. I was potecting my livelihood, my coffee and you were drawn to the heat...or whatever. Either way we were at odds again and I really felt it was a nice setup for us; my non-caffeinated swipes were artfully dodged. Indeed, you probably had the upper hand.
But drowning yourself in my coffee was uncalled for you fucking prick. By the time I saw your carcass make the tiny splashdown to my unsuccessful attempts to fish your cadaver out with my finger I realized you'd made a crucial step in our relationship with little to no consideration for what my recourse could possibly be.
As the Father of a newborn I operate on a few very vital elements these days; coffee and mostly bad Discovery Channel reruns. The reruns can come and go. But the coffee...oh you're fucking with something sacred now.
Consider the family you know and love in this office dead. You'll be meeting them in Fruitfly heaven. Ask them how I nuked the kitchen with Bleach and then put up no-fly strips. Ask them about the WD-40 and the lighter.
You worthless prick...death is too fucking good for you. Even though I dumped your cadaver down the sink I'm half tempted to turn the garbage disposal on for a good ten minutes just to let you know how I feel.
You may have shuffled off your mortal coil....but this shit isn't over. Not by a longshot.