Ants

I regard the ants with a mixture of anger and awe.

Anger- they are everywhere. I have pretty good number sense, and I'm certain there are 900 thousand billion of them living in my kitchen wall. So the smallest bit of available food is instantaneously found, whether it be a grain of rice or a shaving of cheese. Fats and sugars are their favorite (incidentally, they won't touch Blue Band, our strangely-textured margarine substitute... wise ants). I have unfortunately resorted to pesticides of late, and their little melted exoskeletons are stacked half an inch high in places. Like black, leggy snowdrifts.

Awe- they find anything. An unfortunate gecko fell into my bathtub and wiggled off his tail in his panic to escape. Gross all on its own, made more so by the swarm of ants consuming the tail. Even worse: the second trail leading to his still-raw hindquarters.

Anger- Last night, I was going to be responsible and cook instead of going out to eat, until I found that my pasta-straining colander (what's there to eat on a colander?) was covered in ants. I texted my friend back and said, "I take back my no. Need me to drive to the restaurant?"

Awe- how could I have killed so many and yet so many remain?

Anger, and this was the last straw- they got my Nutter Butters! The ones I had been saving for a particularly stressful day (like this one). The package was a peanut-butter-scented ant farm. Everything was reduced to granules, and an intricate tunnel system ran throughout. To add insult to injury, it was all used up; the ants had apparently relocated.

I can't face my kitchen. I wonder what it will do to my budget to not cook for an entire week.

Spring Break can't come soon enough.