In the summer, my apartment gets visited by many fruit flies. There are so many I can't even name them all.

Last night I finished a bottle of Bulleit Rye Whiskey. It's a tasty whiskey that I like to mix with meyer lemon to make a refreshing whiskey sour. This morning I learned that it is also a very popular whiskey among my fruit fly friends. Overnight, I found about 23 of them floating in the last drops at the bottom of the empty bottle. In the picture above, they look like tiny little specs floating in the rye. They had drunk themselves to death. A fruit fly's life is very short, just a few weeks. That's probably why so many of them become obsessed with their own mortality and can only find comfort at the bottom of a whiskey bottle. I sometimes imagine myself shrinking down to a tiny Ken Tanaka size, standing on the top of a bottle of rye, and trying to catch the little fruit flies, before they fall in to the bottle and are lost forever.

I wish that they would have read my book, Everybody Dies: A Children's Book for Grown Ups before taking their final gulp. Maybe it would have helped them to accept their short lifespan, instead of making it even shorter. So long fruit flies. So long, forever.

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