Just like the Bronte sisters, sort of

What are you reading my crap for? Go read my sister's blog.

She recently ragged me out about my ant freak out:

"REALLY, you should be ashamed of yourself. They are just harmless little ants and you reacted like a sissy. I will not forgive you or think it's acceptable that you rushed out to purchase harmful insecticides because you are a sheltered, squeamish, spoiled-rotten Princess who can't handle a little bit of nature in your bedroom. It's obvious that there is rot around the window pane and these are carpenter ants gathering to do mother nature's job of cleaning up the mess: turning rotting wood into fertile hummus so that life can perpetuate. I am ashamed to call you my sister! If you can't handle a few lame and plump city carpenter ants, how are you going to handle the swarms of bloodthirsty mosquitoes, blackflies and noseeums, the threat of grizzly bears, wolves, constant rain, dangerous rapids on our canoe trip? Where is your spine? You are selling yourself as a wimpy spoiled city brat and I'm horrified. Also: what's so gross about them writhing and touching each other? Is it not a beautiful erotic thing? Can you not think outside the prescribed tv-box that says insects are the bane of evil, the sperm-spawn of satan? Fuck, man, I'm going to write a blog highlighting the time I wacked off to a bucket of earwigs."

Now THAT is good writing. I love you, Poodle in my Pants.