I came home last evening to a 100-degree apartment (as I expected), and proceeded to turn on the fans and open all the windows. As I opened the window in my office, I noticed a single fat bumblebee floating away from the sill. Whoops, I meant two bees. No, wait,
I stepped away from the window, awash in the smug, self-satisfied glow of having solved yet another silly wildlife problem in the Apartment of WIN and looked down.
Hundreds of ants were pouring from underneath the heating board that runs along the wall under the window. No, wait,
Goodbye, Apartment of WIN: hello, Apartment of FUBAR.
I calmly walked to the kitchen (calm, because at that point my brain had broke), grabbed a big-ass cannister of cinnamon (thanks for the tip, thismortalquill!, walked back to the office, and proceeded to let loose with a shitstorm of spice all over the floor. Whaddayanno, it worked: ants hate cinnamon. Ha ha, tiny mandibled bitches - I am the Kwisatz Haderach! Whilst the colony was temporarily immobilized, I slipped downstairs to the Duane Reade on the corner, bought two huge cans of Insect Killing Shit (and a box of Hot Tamales - because, unlike ants, I can has cinnamon treats), schlepped back to the apartment (in a thunderstorm, thank you very much), and closed the door.
And there in the dark arose much killing and shrieking, tearing of limbs and crushing of mandibles, and poison and profanity filled the motherfucking air, and the earth trembled. No, literally: EARTH trembled - I pulled back a bookcase and found a massive mound of dirt that these little cocksuckers had transported UP to my apartment. There was an actual colony of ants living in my office, probably for months, and if I hadn't sprayed the bees, I probably still wouldn't know they were there. After the dying, er, died down, I got onto my knees and looked under the heating board - the mound ran from one end of the wall to the other. They must have been working on it for some time. What's amazing, though, is that they never came into the office area, even when I brought food in (although I'm very fastidious, so there wouldn't have been much for them to eat). I'm assuming that they were getting food elsewhere, and using my office and wall as the home base. GAH.
I spent the rest of the night waking up every five minutes to check the floor for "strays", and trying to air out the smell of cinnamon-laced Raid from my now only 90-degree apartment. The hours sort of passed in a blur of bad dreams, insecticide hallucinations. Around three am, I finished the last of the Hot Tamales and washed them down with a big old glass of red wine. Honestly, I didn't give a shit anymore. When I left this morning, there were thousands and thousands of black dots scattered across the floor, marinating in cinnamon and toxins - and I can hardly wait to come back home to my 110-degree apartment tonight to brush them all up, after which I can start excavating the dirt mound and looking for the crack to patch up, as well pouring concrete or cement or something into those holes in the walls before the bees return and start building a hive in my hair. Christ on a fucking bee-covered bicycle, could my life possibly get more glamorous and exciting? I think not. I hope not.