Ant Apocalypse

An impressive colony of ants has migrated into my kitchen. They’ve apparently had a very successful migration since a few days ago I was only noticing one or two ants foraging around my countertop looking for a crumb to take back to their starving queen and kids. Within a few days, these same ants were having an Ant Independence Day parade across my countertop and up my wall. Based on the flow of traffic, they’ve set up an impressive metropolitan area inside a box of off-brand Frosted Mini-Wheats. It’s crazy to think that just days ago, the charter members of the Kitchen Counter Ant Colony were living such a primitive existence on my kitchen countertops, completely exposed to the elements and the daily attack of the tsunami like force of my dishrag that would sweep them into that menacing black-hole of death (known to you and me as the garbage disposal).

Just like everything else in my life, I’ve managed to over-analyze this situation. And because I usually analyze things in the context of literature with literary devices, this situation has become an unfortunate moral dilemma for me. (And once again I’ve discovered a way that reading has completely destroyed my ability to function as a normal, contributing member of society). I know what I need to do. I understand the pragmatic solution to my ant infestation: extermination. Plain and simple. Kill them before they take over my entire kitchen, and threaten my quality of life. But because of my over-analytical literary approach to life, I can’t bring myself to do it. It’s all because of one pesky rhetorical device called personification.

Just in case you don’t remember what personification is from your high school English teacher A.) shame on you, and B.) it’s when a writer gives human qualities to objects and things that are not human, and C.) shame on you again. So when I think about what I have to do to get rid of these ants, the literary device of personification steps in and makes me question my decision.

Suddenly I’m aware of the power that I have over these ants. I become some evil dictator willing to wage genocide on the subjects scavenging on the shores of my Kitchen Counter, and living in the mountainous caverns of the Land of Cereal on top of my refrigerator. Because I've personified these ants, the logical solution to my ant problem has become something all together evil. What I’m really considering is chemical warfare on an entire population of innocent beings just trying to make their own way and ensure a better future for their children.

If I do mix that brutal cocktail of boric acid and my sister-in-law’s delicious homemade strawberry preserves, how will I be able to sleep at night? I’ll be aware that at that exact moment the Kitchen Counter Ant Colony will be experiencing the greatest disaster in its history. It will be an ant apocalypse. I’ll know that the brave and self-sacrificing scout ants will carry the delicious jam back to their families and to their queen, excited by the treat they discovered on the Kitchen Counter Shores; they will be congratulating themselves and thanking Divine Providence for this blessing. By the time they make it back to their colony, they’ll be feeling a bit woozy, but they will probably attribute it to the delirium and excitement. They’ll share the delicious and poisonous jam with their loved ones, but before their little ant children can tell them how this is the best thing they’ve eaten since that night I made smores, the scout ants will fall stone dead into a cavernous, frosted mini-wheat. The other ants will tragically mourn this unexpected death, but since their brains are so small, they won’t be able to make the connection between the jam and the sickness. (Ants that are emotional eaters will be especially vulnerable to the acid jam at this point, as they begin to eat their tiny ant feelings). Within a few weeks, the entire ant population will have failed because of a horrible and cruel plague that I have complete power not to inflict...

But then this past Sunday when I sat on my back porch with a cup of Darjeeling tea and a delicious and buttery lemon-poppy seed muffin, I was able to turn my personification off. After a few bites of muffin, I noticed that the poppy-seeds had a strange texture and they tasted funny; they were extra-crunchy, larger than usual, and tangy. When I pulled the muffin out to inspect the giant poppy-seeds I also noticed that they were moving. A lot. (Dear reader, at this point, you’ve already figured out that I was, in fact, eating ants who were as excited about my lemon-poppy seed muffin as I was…I am however slower on the up-take than you so it took me a few more seconds to realize that I had just eaten a lemon poppy-seed and ants muffin). Considering my lack of upper-body strength and my inability to multi-task, I never suspected that I could throw a baked good so far while shrieking and spitting.

Suddenly the ants became just ants. An annoying and expensive infestation that could potentially take over my apartment (and digestive tract) requiring professional attention from an exterminator. I immediately went to the store to buy the boric acid with a clear conscience and a heightened sense of purpose. Muwahahahaha…

And even if I didn’t turn my personification off, I can still assuage my conscience. Ants really do make the worst roommates. They can’t pay rent, and they always invite their friends over to stay, and all they do is eat your food. And they SOOOOO don’t respect the rules of eating a roomate’s food:

1. Anything take out is off-limits,
2a. Everything else is eat in emergency situations only or with permission,
2b. Anything eaten must be replaced within two days.

Plus all they want to talk about is how much they can benchpress. I mean, their arrogance alone would have gotten them killed in an epic Greek poem, so I shouldn’t feel bad.