ACK! My place is full of carpenter ants!

The first one arrived in my living room about a month ago. "Hmmm, a spy," I thought, before promptly squishing him. Crisis adverted. I had just stopped a full-scale invasion. The spy's superiors would never get the message about the cache of sugary-cereal in my kitchen. I had nothing to worry about.

Yeah, riiiiiiiigggght.

Everything I know about ants I learned in college. During my senior year at the University of Oregon, my roommates and I fought an epic 9-month long war against an infestation of sugar ants. After trying various traps and other methods, we stepped our efforts once they figured out how to infiltrate the fridge. "Operation Ant Apocalypse" involved several cans of Raid and absolutely no mercy. The spraying did not end at the doorstep. We pushed the ants across the threshold and pursued them on their own turf. Rocks were uplifted. Lemon-scented death rained down on ant hills. The fence was white-washed with Raid. We may have increased the level of carcinogens in our bodies ten-fold but OAA was a rousing success.

Foolishly, I didn't consider the size of the spy. He was much bigger than any sugar ant. Any homeowner will tell you that once you spot a carpenter ant indoors you're already infested. Within days, I was killing anywhere between three and a dozen of the spy's colleagues. I had ants crawling around on my desk, ants on the TV screen and ants in my keyboard. Perhaps, worst of all, was the night I found two ants humping on the bathroom floor. I promptly flushed their bumping bug booties down the toilet.

Unlike most people, I have a high threshold for houses that should be condemmed. The pipes at my place spew rust-fleck water that isn't fit for human consumption. The kitchen is horribly outdated with appliances dating back to the Truman administration. The deck is rotted and somehow, mysteriously, the shower can spontaneously grow a layer of mildew seconds after being cleaned. Worst, of all the door leading from the deck to the bedroom isn't properly insulated. Because of this, I found a pair of slugs trekking across the carpet one evening last summer. How they managed to squeeze through a series of millimeter-sized holes I'll never understand.

But I put up with it all because the price was right and the place was close to work. The final straw was the Indiana Jones ant.

One night, while sitting on the couch, I suddenly felt an ant crawling around on my neck. I brushed the adventurous brat away but, somehow, it managed to get in my hair. I jumped up and began frantically clawing at the back of my head. The ant, undaunted, continued on his way across my skull. Finally, after what seemed like hours of frustration, I finally pried the sucker out using my fingers like tweezers. When I opened my thumb and forefinger I found half a carcass and a whole lotta' bug glop.

I'm still convinced the metasoma is in there somewhere.

"Operation Ant Apocalypse 2" was a miserable failure. My landlord's attempts to eradicate the infestation has proved equally fruitless. An article in the home improvement issue of the Mercury finally convinced me to start looking for another place. In one article, a woman remodeling a bathroom removed a tile wall only to find a rickety hole full of several thousand angry ants.

Tonight will hopefully be my last one in this house. Tomorrow morning, I will be moving to a place that, for the time being at least, is not full of several million unwelcome houseguests. I fear that the evening may turn into a ant-version of the last act of Poltergeist. Thankfully, I don't own a clown doll. Un-thankfully, I do own a promotional duck plush. When squeezed, it shouts "AFLAC!" This may be the last word I ever hear.