Dear Wasps,
This is your last warning, and our call to arms.
No more shall I grab one of the size 13s from Prince Charming’s stash and smash you despite bringing down the drapes.
Never again shall I bring a mug of blueberry tea to my lips in the bathroom, only to dump most of it over my(just showered)self as you dive bomb me and hide behind the vanity.
Under no circumstances shall continue the workout of ducking while simultaneously closing the microwave, grabbing something flat, and praying that you’re crunching flat as I slam it down, all the while singing and laughing so the kids don’t start screaming too.
There shall be no more stifled screams, ranting emails, tempered tweets.
I’m finished with the ducking, the pouncing, the rationalization of you as a fellow creation of God.
The end is NOW for nighmarish wasp nest considerations, movie references, tolerance training.
Though we welcome you and your bug-killing talents in the barns, in the sheds, in the trees, and, really, anywhere outside, we can no longer count you as a house guest.
You might think I call him Prince Charming for a reason (and you’re right) but to you can call him General Assassination. I’ve sent him the message, and the strategy is being plotted and planned as I type.
Your days here are numbered, and the number is very, very, VERY small.
Goodbye, wasps.
I won’t miss you.
– Sarah
