Anti-Anterial

Yes, I am an ant killer. Victoria the Ant Slayer, master of Lysoling ants to death. I take a break every minute or so from typing this, grab my trusty (and almost empty) can of Lysol, put my finger on the button, aimed and ready to blast anything that moves across the floor beneath me. Do they sell 'ant-killing fatigues'? If so, they're mine! I've told the ants (yes, we communicate dammit!) in no uncertain terms that they either have to get the fuck out or I'm going to Lysol them to death. They didn't listen, now they must suffer the consequences. See, I'm not cold-hearted. I gave them a fighting chance, and as we all know, ants ain't stupid. They just underestimated me and my Lysol. There are 6 more cans upstairs, so I'm fully armed, lock & loaded if you will. For, my friends, this is war. So, by now, my floor (carpet and otherwise) is so goddamn disinfected you could probably eat off it. Well, except the fucking ants would take your food!! They are greedy bastards, aren't they?

It's now become an obsession. When I see one ant-running in any direction except to get the fuck out, my eyes glaze over. My adrenaline starts pumping, and I am ready to make my move. Bet they wish now they hadn't messed with me.

So I can't eat, I'm breathing Lysol all day long (it feels kinda good, actually), I can't concentrate and my blood pressure is probably higher than it should be. Yet, there's such a calming sensation in knowing I am strong, and I have won. Yet, it's also bittersweet, I mean how many ant lives have I taken? How many ant mommies and daddies won't be going home to their ant-children today? Have some escaped my wrath so that they can go back to their ant-condo and warn the others not to come??? I sure as shit hope so.