The Bees have it made.

 

It was never explained to him when he was young, why he had a propensity for potato salad, or why the giants were always trying to kill him.  Right off, windows were a challenge.  He didn’t quite understand them.  He didn’t know why he had been born a house fly, but he was.

He didn't want to like potato salad. It was cold, mushy, suspiciously speckled. But every time he buzzed past a table, some ancient craving kicked in. Dill. Mustard. Egg. His wings trembled.

As for the giants—well, they didn’t like him much. That was obvious. They flailed and swatted like conductors gone mad, wielding rolled-up magazines with tragic bravado. He couldn’t figure out why they took his presence so personally. He was only ever there for the salad.

Windows, though—windows were the true torment. Smooth, invisible walls that felt like sun and smelled of Windex. He’d slam into them and always with optimism. Freedom lay on the other side, he was certain. Freedom and possibly a half-eaten deviled egg.

Nobody had ever told him why he’d been born a house fly. Maybe no one knew. Maybe he was the only house fly in the world with existential questions and a deep yearning for mayonnaise-based side dishes.

Still, he pressed on. Dodging giants. Studying glass. Chasing salads and looking at the bees out in the open air, landing on flowers without a care in the world.