ArcaMax

Attention, disgusting little guys:

I write by the light of a candle in hopes you won't locate me. I have been reduced to a hostage in my own home, a scavenging rat-style person dragging a pizza crust from the fridge to eat under cloak and dagger.

Why have you come? What do you seek?

Since individual intervention (murder) has been slow to take, I appeal to you flying bugs openly and humbly. Consider this a formal request, delivered under duress, for all 6,000 of you to pack a bandana on a stick and shuffle off this mortal coil. Or, as it were, soil.

At first, I thought you were fruit flies, but you seem to lack interest in fruit. You are instead drawn to anything with the faintest drop of moisture. Research says you are likely fungus gnats, which is really gross! I know you didn't name yourself, but maybe look into filing a change with the clerk of courts?

You and your various tiny fly cousins are annoying everyone in the heat of summer, coming out of drainpipes, swarming mouth holes, cannonballing into exposed coffee mugs, bringing down human foes with David and Goliath aplomb.

I have to hand it to you. You have pep. You have grit.

But you, gnats, have turned me into someone I don't recognize. Whereas I was once able to find empathy for all creatures, I am now Arnold Schwarzenegger, bruised, battered and toting a rocket launcher.

I've poured boiling water down the drain multiple times. I've purchased the internet's lot of Zevo traps. I've ordered a new trash can with a tight-fitting lid. I've placed potions of vinegar and dish soap around the kitchen, cackling with glee whenever one of you waddles toward the pool of doom. I've cleaned the house within an inch of its life, the air smelling of chemical agents and loathing. Just as I sit down, smugly certain I have persevered, it happens.

Bzzt.

In desperation, I phoned friends. One, who apparently has an advanced degree in architecture, suggested a funnel method with a wine bottle and a sheet of paper. Another, an avid keeper of houseplants, said you gnats like to nest and breed in the soil. Did I have a plant nearby?

In a stroke of comedy, yes. I have a single plant on the kitchen counter, a neglected, sad shrub that was a housewarming gift. All the leaves have fallen off. Unlike most women of a certain age who lived through COVID-19, I missed the special interest period in houseplants. I do water it sporadically with zero research into its actual needs. My husband waters it when I am not looking, which is most of the time, which means we are both working overtime to create a dead plant/cozy gnat sex dungeon.

Oh, but you already knew this, huh? Didn't you, gnats? You have mocked me for the last time. My friend, the plant lady one, gave me yellow star strips that stick in the soil, and they appear to be working. Now I'm the proud owner of a bald, ugly houseplant rocking a mustardy sticker full of dead flies. It is gorgeous and inviting! I am winning at domestic life!

Count your days, gnats, as your summer lifespan dwindles. And if you dare lay 200 eggs in my vicinity ever again, please know there are more sternly worded letters to come. That's a threat.

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Stephanie Hayes is a columnist at the Tampa Bay Times in Florida. Follow her at @stephrhayes on Instagram.

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