I'm buying stock in Windex.

eff-yoo-cee-kay-tee-aitch-aye-ess. lefuck lethis. uck-fay is-thay.

Fuck. This. Shit.

I'm moving to Alaska. or back to Alta. I'll go chill with that swedish chick with the fire-engine red, butt-length dreads and her sheep farm and penchant for folk dancing, or go back and tell Marit Sara or Sara Sara or Sara Marit or Marit Eira that yes, I would love to meet their grandson/nephew/son/sister's cousin's brother's uncle's grandson, and I'll use him to get my norwegian citizenship, then get The Boy his citizenship, and he won't care, because we won't have to deal with the fucking ants of doom.

for fuck's sake.* we've sanitized. we've scrubbed. we've gone through enough windex to clean every window in the city. we've tupperwared the shit out of our kitchen. still they come, now in my bathroom (which does not share an outside wall.) and under the dishwasher (which is CENTERED INSIDE THE APARTMENT.) and along my desk, and in the relocated cat food, which has now been re-relocated outside. I guess we have to go back to "hey. hey. hey. hey. hey. hey. hey, human. hey. hey, human. human? human, I want food. now. hey. hey. hey. hey. hey. hey, human. hey. HEY. FEED ME, SEYMOUR." although I want to ship the cats over to charlie and mandy's or elliot's or steph's and terro-bomb the hell out of the apartment. and then call the landlord and say "the ants. get them out of the walls. I'm not paying for it. if you won't get them out of the walls, then I will. you do not want this." but that's not gonna happen.

*and yes, that is the sole phrase that I say with a deep minnesotan accent. (usually with an oh in front of it. yes, 'oh, fer feuk's seyk.') I say it rarely. the last time I said it, I made my partner spit coffee all over the rig. no, that isn't hyperbole.