When I first moved in, I had mice. Karma and Jinx handled that situation with the efficiency of tiny, furry assassins. The mice now live in the ceiling and walls, presumably traumatized but alive — no longer tenants in my apartment. The cats issued a quick and final eviction, and honestly, I respected the professionalism.
My home is OCD-level clean. Floors washed daily. Dishes never in the sink. Couch cushions vacuumed like I’m expecting a surprise inspection from the Cleanliness Police. My cleaning obsession is one of the few gifts from my upbringing that didn’t ruin my life. It’s too intense to be normal, but it works.
Spring rolled in with sunshine, warmth, and — to my horror — the annual parade of things that crawl. It started slow: one or two ants wandering across the floor like tourists looking for snacks. I laughed. They weren’t going to find crumbs in this apartment. Unfortunately, my cats are adorable little chaos goblins who treat their food bowls like confetti cannons.
Once the first ants arrived, I got serious. Food bowls on trays. No food left out. Every stray kibble hunted down like it owed me money. I wasn’t worried. A few ants a day? Fine. Manageable. Cute, even.
Then the ants sent out a group text.
Suddenly it was an open house. Family, friends, coworkers, distant cousins — all marching in like they’d RSVP’d. A few became a lot. A lot became hundreds. They formed organized lines, military precision, heading straight for their target. By the time I spotted them, it was too late. Whatever they’d found had turned into a writhing mound of tiny black bodies fighting over crumbs that should not have existed.
I’d clear one mound, turn around, and find another. The floor was spotless. Where were they finding things? Were they bringing snacks with them?
This was no longer a minor inconvenience. This was war.
They thought they could move in without signing the lease or paying rent. Absolutely not. It became a battle of wills: them or me. And I wasn’t going anywhere.
So each morning, armed with a bottle of bleach cleaner and a stack of paper towels, I clock in for my unpaid job as Ant Exterminator. I didn’t apply for this position, the pay is nonexistent, and the benefits are terrible. But I refuse to let them take over.
The building is old — rotting floors, holes everywhere, slowly collapsing into “future condemned property” status. The ants know it. I know it. But unless they’re planning to help with rent or contribute to the cleaning schedule, they are not welcome.
Eviction notices go out daily. No appeals. No negotiations. Just bleach, paper towels, and spite.
Still here, waiting to receive the rent that I damn well know I’ll never see,
K.
