Finding piles of shit lying around is a good indicator that something has gone awry in pretty much any scenario. If you found a mound of shit in your cubicle at work, you'd ask HR if it meant anything about your employment status, for example. But, as with the start of any movie about aliens (and any kind of movie monster in general), the first sign of trouble is usually ignored; it's rationalized away as nothing. Probably because acknowledging there is a problem at all means having to deal with it and spend money on it. I'd rather my apartment fill to the ceiling with hexagonal turds than have to do things. My life is a spectacular quest to avoid hassle.

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"WHAT? A PROBLEM? NO. I DON'T SEE ONE ANYWHERE."

So of course I'm correct in assuming these little mounds are in no way indicative of a much larger and much more disgusting problem that will soon take over my life. It's fine. It's all going to be fine.

That's Bruce Wayne sitting within the glow of a street lamp that slices though the darkness to illuminate not only his dead parents but also his pain. Now, imagine that, but I'm Bruce and I'm surrounded by about a dozen little termite corpses twitching around on the stove top, wings and legs everywhere. In the 10 minutes I was out, there was an invasion, and then a massacre. The invaders saw I had left and had taken my beast with me. "NOW WE STRIKE!" said their disgusting termite lord.

They had probably been planning this invasion for weeks, studying schematics and maps, learning the details of the apartment and its occupants' schedules. Termite troops said their tearful goodbyes to their wives and children and then hopped on steam trains and waved through the window as they pulled further away until their loved ones were motes left only to be remembered. They had taken every precaution, done all of their research, and had taken everything into account, except for that thing about how they're very stupid and can be easily thrown off their game plan by a shiny light. It was an exposed light bulb; they fried and were now dying where I make eggs and shit.

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Like this, but disgusting.

Their presence activated my apartment's defenses. I was safe, but only for now. There was an enemy out there, and they had made their presence known ... as well as their intent: They wanted my home.

And, by god, they weren't going to get it.

Like Will Smith's character, John "Independent" Day, I too had to take up arms and fight. But the termites weren't going to go down easily. See, what they did during our first encounter was called "swarming." It's when they mount a relentless, vicious attack on whatever they want to poop hexagons into next. And they don't stop doing it. They swarm after it rains, and they love coming out at night (they hate sunlight yet fly toward light bulbs like it's their disgusting mom's nourishing titty). This leads me to believe that they hate post-rain humidity and all they really want is my central air and Flintstones Push Ups.

It's here that I should quickly mention exactly what we were up against in this fight. I've mentioned the swarming, but what happens from there? Well, I've been comparing termites to aliens, but it turns out termites are basically World War II paratroopers as well. They fly in and shed their wings the way a paratrooper sheds their parachute if they're lucky to have landed alive, and then they charge headlong into battle. It's disgusting, and they should feel ashamed of themselves.

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Gaaaahh.

That was our primary enemy. My girlfriend and I needed weapons better than rolled-up issues of Entertainment Weekly to deal with this menace. So we got ourselves some termite-killing spray. This is our water to their Signs aliens. I've never fired a gun in my life, let alone killed someone with one, but I now fully get why psychos in movies who are mowing down dozens of people/aliens with big-ass machine guns say dumb self-hyping shit like, "Yeah, come get some!" and, "I ain't scared of you! You should be scared of me!" It mostly stems from fear -- fear of losing control and feeling overwhelmed by the unevenness of the fight, yet inviting the challenge.

There's also a tinge of power in it, knowing I'm holding a thing that is designed for the sole purpose of killing. I know this firsthand, because as we sprayed and swatted at termites night after night, we would unironically say, "Yeah, come get some!" and, "I ain't scared of you! You should be scared of me!" along with many stupid cliches off the "I'm So Jacked To Be Killing" greatest hits album.

If I'm being honest with myself, all that hyping and termite slaughter is probably mostly recoiling in horror and screaming when one touches me. But in my head, it was totally this:

This went on for days, until we finally drenched their home (our door, attached to our home) in enough of the chemical agent for it to officially qualify as a war crime. They stopped swarming. Every night was calm. Our home was ours once again.

It was over.