I don't know about you, but I don't find anything more romantic than spending your Monday night murdering hundreds of ants in your bathroom next to your life partner.
We've been taken over, y'all. And by "taken over" I mean that it was actually quite manageable and also that our entire bathroom floor is now covered in blue painter's tape in hope of keeping the minions of Satan at bay. Please don't think we live in squalor.
Ants inspire in me a certain paranoia, you see. Because you kill one, but there are at least 7 more out of sight that are still at large. "I think...I think they're coming from inside my Kindle!" I kid you not, I spent about a month reading my Kindle while it was inside an airtight gallon-sized ziplock bag because I had to be sure. I was one more ant away from sending that Kindle off to have it examined and dismantled to find what I can only imagine is a disturbing ant colony embedded in the little wires and chip technology of my gadget.
So we found a few ants crawling around the bathroom. We knew they might be coming out of a little spot where the grout of our tile floor had sort of cracked away from the wall/shower. The next day there were more and I told Michael we had to do something. He set out little ant traps that are supposed to be filled with poisoned ant food. The problem, however, is that the ants just see it as food. So when I went back to check on the A.S.S (Ant Sortie Status), it was utter chaos.
Hundreds upon hundreds of ants, swarming, roiling, clickering away with their billion legs. The ASS was out of control. After I projectile vomitted, I GTFO'd and calmly told Michael that our bathroom scene was "horrific."
In response to the not-very-effective strategy of the night before - to bop each individual ant - I decided to try something new. We wrapped our fingers in painter's tape, sticky side out, and stuck those bastards. We each worked the periphery until there was no other choice but to dive in, disrupt the ant traps and deal with the outpouring of frickin' ants from those cesspools.
It was cathartic, in a way, being able to cuss out a stream of consciousness.
I'll spare you the details, but let's say that our many pieces of tape looked like the Biore strip of someone who had done a caviar face mask.
We have a guy coming to fix it. Until then I will sit up in bed, rocking back and forth and sending accusatory glances toward my Kindle.