This morning, as I was brewing my habitual cup of tea in the kitchen, I noticed strange black stains on our white tile floor. Upon closer inspection, my skin immediately began to crawl and I hopped around the kitchen scratching every possible inch of my skin.
Ants. Tens of thousands of little black ants, clustered together so tight they looked like dark vibrating puddles on the floor. The worst part was that they were everywhere - clustered on the counter, in thick lines along the door jamb and window sill, on the walls, and like a live carpet on the bottom of the cabinet under the sink. It was a bonafide infestation, an in-your-face reminder that we live in a shoddily maintained building in the heart of the humid tropics.
So I did what any girl would do at 7am faced with an ant colony invading her kitchen: I reached for the Baygon and sprayed away. A few minutes later, as I swept the ant carcasses into a pile several inches high in the corner of the room, I was hit with a pang of guilt. Today I am choosing not to believe in reincarnation across species of the animal and plant kingdoms. Instead of destiny playing a cruel trick and bringing me back in the next life as an ant, I'd much prefer the irony of being reincarnated as a perpetual contestant on Fear Factor.