Dear Flies In My House,

CONGRATULATIONS! God has seen fit to grant you that rarest of abilities, the gift of flight. (You also have a ridiculous number of eyes, but that’s neither here nor there and I digress). Though diminutive in nature, your lack of stature in the animal kingdom need not bring on bouts of rampant insecurity or emotionally crippling size-envy because you, my winged friends, can explore the whole of the outdoors relatively unimpeded by the curse of gravitational pull that binds most of us to the land. Your very name holds this over our heads, taunting the ground-bound and mockingly stating, “I am what I do. I fly. I. FLY.”

And what have you chosen to do with this precious gift? Fling your tiny three-part bodies into the air and rise above the trials and tribulations of the day to soar the skies? Perhaps travel? See the world? Taste the delicacies of the garbage on seven continents just because you roll like that? No. You have instead chosen to crash at my place (supposedly) at the invitation of my kitchen and are currently doing eye-level laps around my office at 3:30 in the morning, chasing each other like insects in heat. Your exuberance at this endeavor closely resembles an assemblage of truckers downing handfuls of speed like M&Ms.

So again I say, congratulations. Enjoy the festivities. Mi casa es su casa. Make yourself at home. Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow you will meet your end beneath the swift vengeance of my rolled-up issue of Entertainment Weekly, a magazine so fast-food-like in its nature that its only purpose post-initial-consumption is making you die.

Earth-bound (but higher in the food chain),