Ants

Have I already told you this?

I whisper at ants. Okay, I whisper at all beings, sometimes I don't even bother to whisper, just talk like no one is around but me and the ant or the bird or the squirrel or the bright neon green bug that just landed on my arm.

Ants.

I don't want to hate them. I love them in an ant farm.

So much to love about ants. They are industrious and determined and strong-willed, but quiet and seemingly unimposing. Except when they keep trudging up your arm, tickling you when you are trying to get your work done.

I tell them, in a whisper, go back to your home and tell them all that the giant will smash them mercilessly.

It's true. I will.

Don't piss off the giant, she will crush you.

The ants persist, however. Smashed ant smell might be more compelling even than sweet sugar smell.

So, I build them a corner where they are allowed to be. I give them cookies and salty things, too... and I whisper... over here, you can be here, I will share.

But not on my desk.

Not on my desk.