Ants are bloody dangerous. You should definitely, absolutely stay away from them.

When I was little (formative years here) a boy who used to attack me on a near-daily basis shoved me into a fence. But it was not any fence. I landed directly upon a fire ant hill. And they came out, crawled into my three-year-old clothes, and bit me. They chewed like there was no bloody tomorrow. And it frakking hurt.

Luckily, Ms. Wanda came out and pulled them off of me, and I was saved! For the most part. I had scars for about a year and nightmares for a good long while as well.

“Colton did it!” I shouted when I woke up.

Then, a little more recently, when in Rome, I was attacked again.

Early July. It’s about 90 Fahrenheit. We’re walking to the Colosseum. We are confused as to which sidewalk we should be on. Mom and dad consult the map. I lean tiredly into the shady embrace of a tree.

Suddenly, I am swarmed again. Black ants, and just your average insect species. Not the stereotypically-evil red ants.

And they’re viciously climbing inside of my shirt, into my bra, my hair, et cetera.

I leaped from the tree, screaming. Eventually, mom and dad got the message and began to pat me. I wanted a little more than some patting.

“Get them off me! It hurts!” I shrieked, probably confusing Italians and European tourists alike.

It was hot. I was sweaty. I was jet lagged. And I was covered in ferocious Roman ants.

Finally, I was released from my torment and glared furiously at the tree.

Stay away from ants. Especially ones from Kennesaw, Georgia, and the Italian ones. I suppose there is some sort of good cultural reason for them to be so bloody aggressive.


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