Can’t live with ‘em, can’t kill ‘em.

Several weeks ago, I had the misfortune of buying raspberries from Trader Joe’s. Now, this would not normally be something to complain about, but the second that I decided to eat the raspberries, I knew something terrible had happened. I opened the lid, and out came about fifteen fruit flies.

Fruit flies are not necessarily disgusting creatures, unless you count laying eggs in food as disgusting. I even bred them my senior year in high school for a genetics project for AP Biology. I even know their Latin name: drosophila melanogaster.

The principal problem with fruit flies is that they practically breed overnight. By the time I thought I’d killed all of them, by the next day, there were more. And they never stopped showing up. In a week’s time, I killed about a hundred. I got very good at it, but I think that some of them adapted, because they got harder and harder to kill. My roommate practically moved in with her boyfriend because they were ever-present in her room. I had had plans to bomb the place, but it seems that it is not recommended by the higher authorities.

So I set a trap for them. Some wine in a bowl, a piece of Saran wrap over the top with a hole poked in it. Overnight, seven died a drunken death. I was very enthusiastic.

I didn’t see another one for several days until just two days ago, I saw a familiar speck streak across my line of sight, very near my open can of Dr. Pepper. “Goddammit,” I thought. “God-damn-it.”

And there you are. Fruit flies are evil. No, they do not wreak destruction, nor are they ugly or loud. But because they are, I must hate them. Eternally.