Last night, I was reading in my reading chair with Fatty McLardbutt on my lap (aka my cat Santino).  All of a sudden Santino’s head snapped up and he was staring intently at my bookshelves.

Usually when he stands to attention, it’s either a microscopic organism I can’t see or an infinitesimally small fly.

Imagine my ABSOLUTE HORROR when I saw it was a CARPENTER ANT.



OK, you all have to know a few things.  The first is that when I was very little (3? 4?…) my mother and I lived with my grandparents in a large old house that had ants.  As in, there was a hole in the floor that we occasionally (and by “we” I mean an adult who was allowed to handle poison) dropped Raid down into and then plugged with a wad of tissues.  I remember this vividly because I lived in constant fear the ants would band together to push the wad out and carry us all back down to their lair one by one in some macabre mind bending way where our bodies get squished through that tiny hole.

The second thing is that one night, while looking at my pop-up books in bed, a carpenter ant ran across me.  Do you have any idea how big a carpenter ant (already bigger than any ant has a right to be) looks to a small child???  About the size of a dog.  A DOG SIZED ant ran across me.  The only thing more terrified than I appeared to be was my mother who hauled ass up the stairs at the sound of her only child screaming.

The last thing you need to know is that because of these childhood events I HATE ANTS.  A LOT.  Like in a phobic I-want-to-die sort of way.


So, last night, there I was with a carpenter ant scurrying over my books.  Taking an ungodly sized metaphorical shit on my shrine of reading material.  And because my fat cat is utterly useless and would sit watching as the ant carried me away, I had to take care of it (i.e. kill it).


But here’s the worst part… I live on a second floor.  How did it get in here???  Why?  And y’all must know that where there is one ant, there are 3,457,000 of them.

I can only hope it somehow got carried in on something.  Because I refuse to believe that my childhood trauma is replaying itself.  I.  Refuse.  To.  Believe.




mmy biggest fear

Remember me, Heather? I’m back to finish you off.

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