Chemical Warfare

I’ve been doing battle with ants for the past few weeks.

The heat drives them in. The recon men travel the endless landscapes of counters and tile and linoleum, searching for the colony’s next meal. Over night, one or two stragglers turn into a swarm on the kibble dish.

I have a basic policy in regards to various lifeforms in my home: as long as long as they are not threatening my survival, they can stay.

I’ve escorted more than a few of my multi-legged brethren out to the lands beyond my doorway. I de-skeeve myself to spiders by picking them up with clumps of toilet paper and tossing the whole thing out. By the time I come to throw the paper in the trash the next morning, they’ve usually gotten the hint and skittered off.

Disease-carriers and grocery-eaters fall directly into the Survival Threatening category. I have been in this apartment for over one year, and I have seen three cockroaches, all of which I caught and burned in effigy as a warning to the rest.

The ants, however, just keep coming back, so I’ve resorted to chemical warfare. The filthy chemical reak of Raid permeates the kitchen and bathroom. For now I’m letting the bodies linger, like a battlefield.

Of course, if I ever want to shower again, I’ll have to rinse that nasty Death Chem off my tub. I would sooner step barefoot into a pile of shit (which I’ve done) than touch my twinkly toes to that toxic shite.