An army of sugar ants are marching around the kitchen. Sometimes I find them on the bathroom counter, too. We’ve removed all items from the pantry, confirmed the airtightness of everything, and wiped down the shelves. The ants remain. The other day I noticed them roaming around a plate of homemade cookies everybody had been eating. The cookies were nevertheless delicious.

My neighbor gave me some Terro ant killer which is essentially liquid borax. She said to put little puddles of it in strategic spots, and I did that. Now I find ants congregating at the puddles, like each puddle is the best ever watering hole, then heading out for the territory like they’re going to tell all their ant friends about the awesome new watering hole. I feel like Jim Jones urging everybody to drink the Kool-Aid. Take a sip! Take a sip! It’s delicious!

The alternative is to keep eating ants. I’m not sure which is worse – the eating of the ants or the killing of the ants. I guess eating ants is killing them, too. Which is the more painful death? And the ants don’t seem to be dying, anyway, so what if we’re eating poisoned ants?

I hate killing the ants, either way. They march in adorable straight lines toward some mysterious mecca, sometimes turning around to communicate in secret ant language which seems to involve little eskimo kisses.

Maybe this is just part of my #floridalife – learning to coexist with tiny slices of the outdoors (but not roaches) and sighing instead of screaming when nature appears in my kitchen.

Ants, individually, aren’t that bright. But as a collective, they eke out an organized, satisfied existence, embracing each moment with zeal and a purpose that, while perhaps ill-defined, is nevertheless omnipresent. It’s admirable, I think.