I've just been in this terribly grim, dour, desperate mood, which causes me to see all my father's faults writ large in me. I think it has to do with the midterms, possibly, and the fact that I can't smoke, and the fact that I become a stress non-eater if the stress continues long enough, and my UTTER AND COMPLETE TERROR OF FAILURE. Not that I have
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Heheh, yay! Dead ants! I actually used to get sort of hysterical around ants when I was younger. They had a tendensy to hibernate in our bathroom, and I'd panic if some of them wound up crawling on my foot. I still get a bit like that, just not as much as before. Now I just sort of tiptoe around whenever there are ants present. The less my feet touch the ants-covered ground, the less likely it is that they get a foothold on me. Well, that's my theory at least.
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To recap part of a radio commercial I frequently heard during my teen years, "Fire ants are not cute. Fire ants are not cuddly. Nobody wants plush toy fire ants." It went on to describe the merits of this particular product, whose name I've since forgotten: "You spray (Product Name) on the hill, and--here's the best part--EVERYBODY DIES. Even the queen."
After fire ants, and the scorpions who had a tendency to get into the house, everything else sort of pales in comparison. I don't mind if ants get on my foot, provided that they don't get on my food.
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