Why do they so annoy me?
Will they swarm my bread?
What are their numbers?
I've killed perhaps 28 ants today, or maybe 17. I think two have gotten away. "Gotten away" means gleefully slipped into the cabinet, running under and around glasses, cups, mugs. Smirking?
How have I allowed this to become a real-life video game?
What is the source of my murderous pleasure as I squash them, rubbing the dust of the ants off on my clothes? (Awkward question; lots of prepositions.)
The ant traps are so much less direct, so much more passive. They require a certain degree of patience -- and faith that they will work.
They are ants.
They say I am human.
Can I write this off as some macabre and quotidian fiction?
Who would expose my lies?