D kills ants dead

Once upon a time not too terribly long ago, I was one of those people who tried to avoid killing insects. I practiced careful catch and release. A tall drinking glass and a piece of cardboard were the only tools I needed to happily rid my home of almost any type of creepy-crawly menace. And then, one January, the ants came. They came slowly at first, and I felt bad about killing them. Before I'd go in for the squish, I'd actually say out loud, in a soft voice, to the ant, "Sorry, friend, but I just can't have you in my kitchen. Please do forgive." I always tried for surgical precision, flattening them quickly with one press of my thumb.

But the ants kept coming. I just didn't understand. My kitchen didn't have anything to offer them. I mean, you've seen my fridge. More and more of them marched onto my counter, my sink, my stove. I kept dispatching them efficiently, apologizing to each one. But the ants kept coming in greater numbers. Then one day, I stopped apologizing to them. And the next day, the ants invaded my bathroom. My bathroom. What? Is up with that? I'm tidy. Often unreasonably so. There wasn't even the slightest glob of toothpaste in the sink for them. But they came. They came just the same. And I got mad at the ants.

I remember my first angry kill. My thumb hovered over the ant as it changed course, trying to escape. I spat at it loudly, meanly, "That's right! Scream! Warn the others! Tell them to turn back or they, too, will suffer under the thumb of the large angry human female! Warn! The!! Others!!!" And I squashed it slowly, with an unkind pivoting press of my thumb. Then, I unleashed the poison. Fifteen drops on a piece of cardboard. The ants circled it. I stood by, rubbing my hands together like a cartoon villain, telling them "Drink! Yesssssss, driiiiiiink! Oh, what's that? Is it the sweet nectar of ... DEATH?!"

It was all very Lord of the Flies, party of one. I didn't smear the dead ant carcasses on my cheeks or anything, but clearly I was on the verge of shattering the conch. My equivalent of the Naval officer arriving on the island came in the form of my most recent ex-girlfriend (heretofore referenced as 3of3). And Windex. 3of3 asked me if I'd ever seen what happens when you spray an ant with Windex. I hadn't. Now I have. And? It really just ain't right. Instant death. Instant. It's brutally effective, but it just ain't right. I don't call it Windex anymore. It's Blue Death. And I'm never cleaning windows with it again. Shudder.