I love my aunts, but I hate ants.
Though I know that they are an integral part of the circle of life, needed to help break down big chunks into little chunks, blah, blah, blah, I can’t help but hate the little bastards.
We have them in the bathroom. A few on the walls, marching like good little soldiers up and down the tile line. A couple of scouts scurry along the tile ledge in the shower, and a handful criss-cross the floor. I squish them all and fling the carcasses into the toilet. My punishment? On more than one occasion an ant has trapsed across my arm while I’m doing my business on the throne. Buggers.
They prefer protein, as I’ve discovered in the kitchen. Now are kitchen looks worse than usual with puddles of ground cinnamon around to discourage them. It works, but only to a degree. I plugged a thoroughfare with a cinnamon stick. Still, they march on. Where are they going? More often than not it is unclear. They simply wander across the counter in search of something meaty but if they can’t find it, do they go away? No. They continue wandering. It’s like Brother Francis Gerard of Utah fasting in the desert in the opening of Walter Millers’ Canticle for Leibowtiz except that the no old man is going to save the little creeps on my counter.