The day you call your property management about a certain ant problem*, so horrible, in fact, that you had mopped and cleaned and most importantly, murdered, while still in your 2-towel out-of-the-shower ensemble room to room when you spied the various tribes that morning, as you couldn't bear the thought of them walking all over your apartment while you were at work, doing God knows... multiplying probably, another second, that 97% of them will go into hiding by the time you return that evening (they got twins, stunt doubles, extended families, etc. you know).
I swear, they know an exterminator is coming to town. And they want to make me look crazy.
* we're talking the real little guys, not the ones that look like they can bench an ice cream cone.
Updated to add: Apparently the fuckers are nocturnal. Tribe Kitchen returned this morning. But hey, at least I'm not crazy! At least there's that!