Current location:	Home
Current mood:	calm
Current music:	Raindrops. It's raining in LA!

Idleness
I'm reading a history book.

I'm sitting in my living room, reading a history book.

I haven't done this in years, and it's great.

However, I forgot what the slick combination of being alone and immersing oneself in the world of historical truth (albeit of a leftist bent) does to my sanity.

I go completely apeshit.

I stopped reading for at least a half hour so that I could engage in a genocidal war with the ants. They are fleeing the rain, you see, trying their best to find safe haven and warmth and dryness in my kitchen. They are coming up through the concrete floor which, cosmetically damaged in the Northridge earthquake of 1994, has developed a crack large enough to be traversed.

Not on my bloody fucking watch.

I pursued them, following one specific ant. This ant's name is Lucky. He's not lucky. He's dead. I killed him with bug spray, as well as a few hundred of his brethren. They were trying to consume a pool of dried koolaid that had massed on the floor of the kitchen. Like a crew of gatherers in some children's version of a Real-Time-Strategy game, they gathered around the sticky puddle of solid sugar, each ones head pointed inward towards their salvation.

And then I came from the heavens, spraying Prallethrin and Lambda Cyhalothrin scented death all over Lucky and his kin.

I sprayed them a lot, and they stopped bothering me with their incessant living. (It bugged me. Hah, hah, deadpan.)

And then karma took hold of the situation and I had to flee the kitchen due to the reek of the aforementioned pesticides.

This is what landed me in my living room, History book firmly planted on the table. I lasted ten minuted before I started to get hungry. And then I went a little crazy.

Me: "I want you in my belly!"

I announced this with determination and finality. A declaration to the heavens that their chosen was ready to be fed.

Me: "Now!"

The ambrosia did not fall out of the sky. Which was good, because it would only have made me cranky. I had been thinking of consuming the box of Better Cheddars that languished, uneaten, in my pantry. Ambrosia is no replacement for Better Cheddars.

I tiptoed into the kitchen, trying to not disturb the ghosts of the ants I had so recently, and ruthlessly, murdered with chemical warfare. The smell of the pesticides made me a little giddy.

I started skipping out of the kitchen to nomnom my Better Cheddars. The skipping could have been caused by my excitement at being able to eat the perfect food (in that moment), or it could have been the pesticides.

Regardless, I skipped. Ten feet. And then sat down and wrote this, instead of continuing to read my History book.