It’s not that they bite or steal our food. It’s the humiliation of it. You spot a fruit fly, and you suddenly feel like you’re living in a swamp. That sleek, modern kitchen? Now it’s a compost bin.
Imagine you’re making pasta for a date. You’re feeling suave, you’ve got the music on, and then you see a fruit fly doing laps around the tomato sauce. The romance evaporates faster than a drop of water on a hot pan. You are no longer a chef; you are now a fly swatter.
And let’s not forget the one that flies directly into your nostril while you’re taking a deep breath. It’s a personal violation of the highest order. You spend the next ten minutes sneezing and questioning your life choices.
