|Emma (nextian) wrote,|
@ 2011-05-02 09:00 am UTC
|Entry tags:||rl: bright college years|
Then it was that she wept, and swore, and would take no comfort but in oaths, in "Fuck you" and "fuck your little ant faces" and "I will fucking destroy you" and "oh fuck not the pantry," and all her railing did not wake her suitemate. When she calmed, she went to the cabinet in pursuit of the Cinnamon, in order to make trails that ants might not cross. But the cinnamon was not to be found. Then recollected she that they had spent it all the night before in making barriers in her suitemate's room. She called out for the ant poison, and searched the closet for it both high and low, but that too was in vain, for the ant poison was in the suitemate's room as well, because her suitemate had forgotten that ants are as men, and proliferate unseemly.
The student rose and went to the pantry, and searched her arcane knowledge of herbs, and made many passes, and produced the nutmeg. But her heart misgave her. For though one sniff of nutmeg is a delight, many sniffs of nutmeg can kill small animals, and give great headaches to the great ones besides. And so at first she was sparing, and made fair lines, and the ants could not cross them, and she watched this in delight. But when it came time to ward her room her sense deserted her, and she uncapped the spice jar and poured out half an inch of nutmeg in a pile across the door. Even were this sugar the ants could not climb it, so high and mountainous it was, and she went to bed with a feeling of satisfaction.
She awoke with a great headache, as though the dwarves of Moria had been hammering on her head, but on the other hand, she could not smell the freshly cut grass from out her window, which had woken her every morning with its pungent misery, and so she was like, this is basically a win.