Woke up in middle of the night and felt something crawling on my arm.
SLAP SLAP.
An Ant.
What are YOU doing here?
Woke up at 6 am and there were more.
Wet a couple of towels and drowned em in the bathtub, then went downstairs and put the towels in the washing machine.
In my laundry room, I have windows, closed by curtains Mom had made me. There were seemingly zillions of winged creatures.
Into the washing machine they went.
Then I went for my walk.
Kept slapping gnats. Would sunglasses have helped?
Methinks this is a gnat, but then I'm not Orkin or Humphrey's.
...
Burned this dish. I ate a couple of spoonfuls last night and then this morning I threw out the ruined pot.
This morning Bob and his warriors are here. Told him about the infestation in my bedroom and he said he'd kill them for me.
Oh, I've gotta strip the bed.
Quick a poem:
INFESTATION OF THE FLYING ANTS
Everything is done in scale
Since they're tiny, we humans can win
If they're colossal, we'll make a film
about it, starring Vincent Price, as the villain,
and Donna Reed, as the maiden in distress.
Perhaps Pruitt can play his bugle as the
insects are torpedoed off the planet
for now. For now.
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