On the Recent and Distressing Demise of Francis T. Culbert

I live in part of my mother's garage. The only company who frequents the residence are a sizable colony of ants and one Simon V. Hunter who I escorted out. (A stinkbug)

I was taking my second shower of the day (damn the stifling summer weather) when I noticed Francis the ant climbing up the vinyl. This irritated me. I let them eat portions of my ramen noodles, leave them the decaying garbage to munch on, tolerate them crawling on my laptop, but quite frankly Francis, I will not tolerate your voyeuristic intentions.
I am a lady after all.

I watched him climb the shower head so as to assume a better view.

"Francis, you need to evacuate with urgency. I will not let you gawk at me and such."

He didn't even grace my firm command with a reply, simply clung to the shining metal and flicked his antenna suggestively.

"Well really Francis!"

And here is where the story takes a sad turn. I was rather angry, so unthinking I splashed him with water. He became dislodged and fell many stories to the shampoo shelf. I shuddered as I imagined my own body plummeting an equal distance.
Still he moved.
Spurred by some satanic impulse, I splashed poor Francis T. Culbert once more.
I was really quite disturbed when he insisted on pretending that he had drowned.
I crouched down on my knees and prodded him lightly with my index finger.
"Francis...Francis...stop playing around."

He was dead.

So today I murdered my good friend, and trust that I have endured loads of remorse about the matter.

Goodbye, Francis Tiberius Culbert, we will miss you always.