I shall defeat the evil-doers and preserve my Jello!
I've always lived alone. It's a thing with me. What's more, I've never invited guests over to my home. This is my space. If I want to meet someone, we'll go to their space, or to a comfortably neutral space. I don't want some clod fumbling around my bookshelves or open kitchen cabinets, notebook in hand and recording all my domestic foibles. Yeah, so I don't dust and my dishes are mismatched. Bite me. I even have a problem with my cats, whom I did invite to board with me and who have made themselves very much at home in all my personal spaces, including the ones on my body. Why is it that the moment a catowner lies in a relatively supine position, they are swarmed with felines? Everyone else seems to think it has something to do with affection. I don't. I know they're checking me out to see if I'm dead yet and they can eat me.
come hither - back off
My female cat Jessie is a comfort sucker; from the minute she arrived she was sticking her head in my pits, sucking on the fabric of my t-shirt until it was sopping and repetitively puncturing my underarm lymph nodes as she kneaded me into oblivion. Speaking of which, there was this very rare occasion I invited someone over to my place, my flamboyantly gay friend Jeff, so that we could respectively read the other's manuscript. He was sitting in an armchair and I was lying on my stomach on the couch, flipping pages. Jessie decided at this very moment that comfort must be had by all - or at least her - jumped up upon my back, and proceeded to look for appropriately warm bends and crooks. She found one. Needless to say, I now know what it is like to have a pussy between my legs in every possible way. Jeff had to peel me off the ceiling when the kneading began. Nothing like clawmarks on your nether regions, I've got to tell you.
So - roommates. I've never had one, specifically because no matter how reliable you think they are, no matter how friendly you become, you have to share everything. You lose all sense of apparent dignity and composure, because said roommate sees the nose hair clippings in the sink, the 1-900 toll charges on the phone bill, and the suction cup dildo on the glass coffee table. You have to rely on them to pay their portion of the utility bills, the rent, the groceries - that's a lot of trust, and a lot of crossing of privacy boundaries for my liking. Frankly, I really don't want to know you have an extra testicle and you talk like Julia Childs when you're drunk.
Yet now I have been overrun by an army of nastly little pricks who I most certainly did not invite to nibble on my sandwich, roam around in my underwear drawer, or tickle my inner thigh. I have more roommates than I know what to do with, and they most certainly do not pay their portion of the rent.
I have ants.
Now, I like ants. Ants are industrious little buggers. Ants have the sort of social organization that human beings only dream of. Ants are the ultimate feminists: they're ruled by a queen, and all the workers are chicks. The guys are all drones and just sit around impregnating the queen and doting on the subsequent larval babies. What more could a woman ask for? Ants can actually reorganize the landscape. They can build a fucking house in 24 hours. And they love Jello. Who wouldn't like them?
However, they also have no sense of personal boundaries and, as far as they're concerned, if your home happens to be in their way, it's theirs.
My home happens to be in the way.
Edmonton is actually a relatively innocuous city when it comes to pests. The province is still officially rat-free, roaches haven't really taken hold, and the long winter pretty much keeps the more virulent variety of bug monsters away. Now, the mosquitoes are the size of small SUVs and could suck an entire human body dry in approximately 60 seconds, but generally, you're safe.
Except from ants.
Ants are everywhere in Edmonton. They love the soil, they love the climate, they love the Edmonton Eskimos and have all their jerseys. If you happen to be so unlucky as to have a main floor apartment, particularly one that is half basement, half first floor, and you also happen to be located in an area with lovely sandy soil, you simply have to accept that ants will eventually come for dinner - and lunch, and breakfast, and a mid-afternoon snack.
My cats love it. They've been getting more exercise than they know what to do with. I, however, am on a mission to obliterate all apartment ants from the face of the earth. It's gotten to the point where even if I get a stray hair on my leg or a tickle of a breeze down my back, I'm slapping and brushing at my body like I've gone into a grand mal epileptic seizure. The things bite, and they seem to look at me as the granddaddy of all-you-can-eat buffets.
At first, the ants were relegated to one area of my apartment - the back corner of my bedroom beside the window, right where my desk happened to be. I have dozens of deep brown mini-splatters on my wall to mark the sudden catastrophic demise of any ant stupid enough to walk up it into my line of sight while I'm working. Unfortunately, where there is one ant, you just know there's an entire squadron of ants hiding around the corner, waiting for the all clear. Now I've begun to find the odd adventurous bug wandering across my ceiling in the living room, across the bathtub, or in my shoe at the front door.
It is time for decisive action, to stop the spread of ant terrorism from destroying freedom and democracy and forming a colonized axis of evil in my carpet. I have returned from my battle preparations and come armed with ant traps, ant baits, ant motels, ant spray, ant swatters, and the phone numbers of 3 different exterminators. I am prepared to sacrifice body parts and sanity in my pursuit of death. I shall call down from the heavens the almighty power of the ant god to tell you it's "time to walk towards the light". I shall sic my cats upon you to slowly torture and then eat you. I will not sleep, I will not eat - in fact, I will use my food as bait, filling empty pop bottles with sugar water and lining the rim with vaseline so you slowly drown in your greed to feed. This is my space, buckos, and nobody, nobody messes with my space. You can wipe that smirk off your jaws. This is no game. You think I can't take you on? Yeah, I see you waving your little antennae around as you laugh with contempt. You think I'm fooling. This is no empty threat, my creepy crawly unwanted companions. I may be flooded with pleas for insectoid pacifism. I may have to fend off protests of bug discrimination and cruelty to the multi-segmented. But this is no joke. This is your worst nightmare. This, my six-legged squatters, is war.
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