My House Hates Me.

I'm convinced that my house was built upon an anthill, and that my house thinks it's funny to let the little fuckers in when I least expect it just so it can watch me jump and scream and cavort like a complete tard while simultaneously trying to avoid and destroy the ants. I hate ants. I hate them more than any other living thing on the planet. They are disgusting. They stink. I am CONVINCED that one day I will wake up covered in them and will have to set myself on fire on that day. I hate them with the passion of a thousand burning suns. They are the only thing that has that much power over me. And yet, they are everywhere. Every-fucking-where in my house, and they come out of nowhere for seemingly no reason. The other night I was up late, working on a project prompt to torture my students with when I felt a tickle on my foot. I reached down, without looking, to scratch at my foot and felt the tickle move. Up. My. Leg. I freaked. I looked down and my carpet was ALIVE. There was a GIGANTIC trail of fucking ants from my dining room table, where I was working, to the closet door in my hallwa, where my sons have a little activity table. There were thousands upon thousands of ants all nasty and writhing on my floor, up the wall, and around the closet door. They were in my carpet, taunting me with their stink and disgustingness. For a half second (maybe a little more) I seriously considered setting my house on fire to kill them all. Common sense prevailed though and I opted for poisoning the hell out of the little fuckers. I emptied half a bottle of poison onto my carpet and some of them were STILL alive. I swear they are bionic and will take over the world one day. It took all night for the stuff I sprayed to dry. The next morning I vaccumed all the little carcasses up and did a little dance of victory on the mass grave I'd created before leaving for work.
When I got home from work, I really had to pee. So without really paying attention, I ran into the hall bathroom to do my bidness. When I reached for the toilet paper, I screamed like a 12 year old girl at a boy band concert. The vanity was COVERED in ants. COVERED! The entire counter top was alive. The mirror was black with ants. The wall looked as if it had veins. The sink was FULL. There were SO many ants I actually reached for the lighter and nail polish remover and seriously considered creating a molotov cocktail to set that mother ablaze. Again, common sense prevailed and I let out a string of obsenities to make a sailor blush and went for the other half of the poison I'd used the night before. I bathed the entire bathroom in that shit. I could not for the life of me figure out what they were after.Mr. Mature heard me screaming and came to see what was up. When he saw the ants he just smiled. When I asked him why he was happy he said "now they're not lonely." Huh? Lonely? "Yeah mama, when I was in here this morning, I saw an ant and he looked lonely. So I gave him a snack before we got in the car." WHAT? Snack? "Yep. I gave him some crackers from yesterday. I put them in my room because I didn't finish them and wanted to save them. I shared though, cuz I'm a good boy." And with that, and his little chest all puffed out with pride, my darling midget marched back into the living room to play with his borther, completely blind to the trauma he'd caused me. Yeah. So now, it's not just my house plotting against me. My kid has joined the party.