A few days ago, I woke up to find hundreds of ants building a nest on my kitchen windowsill. I spent the next several hours smashing every single one individually with a putty knife, had Patrick pour boiling water all over the corpses and eggs just to make sure, and set out shot glasses of red-wine vinegar.
Now I am beset by dozens of tiny centipedes, which seem to be coming from nowhere in particular; I've found them in every single room of the house. Through trial and error, Patrick and I have found that the only good way to kill them is to behead them and then smash through the exoskeleton of the head to destroy any remaining nerve centers. Otherwise, they keep going. I maintain that they may be poisonous; Patrick is almost certain they are not. The putty knife is once again my best ally.
I don't understand what they want. I never find them near food, or water, or shelter. I have taken to leaving out the corpses of their fallen comrades, in the hopes that they will get the hint. After all, while I am grimly satisfied by my prowess as a killer, I would much prefer it if I didn't have to be.
Now I am beset by dozens of tiny centipedes, which seem to be coming from nowhere in particular; I've found them in every single room of the house. Through trial and error, Patrick and I have found that the only good way to kill them is to behead them and then smash through the exoskeleton of the head to destroy any remaining nerve centers. Otherwise, they keep going. I maintain that they may be poisonous; Patrick is almost certain they are not. The putty knife is once again my best ally.
I don't understand what they want. I never find them near food, or water, or shelter. I have taken to leaving out the corpses of their fallen comrades, in the hopes that they will get the hint. After all, while I am grimly satisfied by my prowess as a killer, I would much prefer it if I didn't have to be.