If you’re reading this, it means I’m most likely dead because the wasps that are storming my home have finally won the goddamn battle.
When we moved in, I knew this place wasn’t well taken care of by the last tenants. I knew it needed new tile, new counters, some hardcore yard work. That’s par for the course for a house though, no big. What I didn’t know is that they had virtually abandoned this home in the dead of night for the fear of the wasp hordes that trap you indoors, fearing anything but leaving the garage with a fully-powered flamethrower.
Upon move-in, we found 4 wasp/hornet nests outside our home, strategically placed at every exit door. Every time you try to leave, 7 or 8 of those bastards come in a flying V of fuck-you right at your face to remind you that you don’t belong here. Oh no. This brick corner-lot pre-war home belongs to nature and to sting-assed war lords, not Noa and Adrian goddamn Gavin.
At first it was one or two who hung around the bushes when I let my dog out.
The next few days, I had to sprint out the door clutching my very small dog and run to the park across the street for letting-out-times, which defeats the purpose of having a fenced back yard.
Then, the horde began to gather on my office window. One, five, twelve at a time to taunt me and remind me that if they really wanted to, they could jimmy that window open and murder me. They scuttle and scamper and taunt me with their infuriating superiority. Fucking bugs. Who the fuck do they think they are?
I thought I would be smart and call pest control. After all, isn’t it their job to take care of this kind of thing? Fuck those hornets and their smug little spit-nests.
Orkin never returned my calls. They said it was because they had too many clients. I knew it was because the sting mafia got a hold of them before I could.
It took a month to get Terminix out to my house, and that motherfucker didn’t even try to take out the hornets’ nests. One still hangs menacingly above my office window as a reminder of my inferiority to their creepy skinny little bodies that shouldn’t even be able to be so awful.
Sometimes at night I hear something tap my window. At first I thought it was a robber, but no one was there. Then, I thought of june bugs, but no, nothing so stupid as a june bug wanting my reading lamp.
Of course, it was a goddamn wasp, slamming his body into my windows over and over and over again, sacrificing his body to remind me that he is there. He watches me sleep. He watches me work. He knows my life better than I do.
He is waiting.
I am going to die.