Fire ants

It rained for a solid two days. We've sprayed around the floorboards for ants, and they're still infiltrating the premises. I've already been bitten twice earlier today by simply sitting on my bed. 

As I turn the last page of my book I feel a tickling presence on my arm... Could it be? Slap. Fireant down. Forearm on fire. My leg! Slap. Nothing there. An ant on the pillow next to mine. One exaggerated sweep of the arm. Head itches. Left ankle. Belly. Ear. Nothing there. Yet.

These phantom feelings are legitimate responses to a higher probability that at this rate, I will most definitely be bitten at least fifteen times by 7am tomorrow. Provided that I exercise the same level of caution, which would be impossible since I will hopefully be sleeping soundly sans apocalyptic-scaled pain of fire. 

I shake my sheets, the cortisone on standby. My only consolation is that this created will not have an afterlife with the Creator. Is that harsh? Is that arrogant? Is that sacreligious? 

Perhaps in order to express the torment of my mind, although only a trifling matter, really, I must simply provide my faithful audience with Michelangelo's first painting. 

FIRE ANTS, EVERYWHERE