I am not afraid of much, although as I age I have become more anxiety stricken on the freeway. I am not afraid of spiders; if I see a big, hairy one in my bathtub, I will scoop it up in a cup and take it outside to live and be free. I like snakes and reptiles and would hug a grizzly bear if I could.
There is one thing on this earth, however that I truly dislike and that thing is ants. I do not like that they travel in packs and whenever I see an ant trail (you know, when a million-ant-army is marching in formation on some unknown ant mission), that gives me the super-creeps.
When I was 9, I was enjoying my morning bowl of Raisin Bran when I detected a funny taste. Upon closer inspection, I saw that my cereal was laden with ants that had somehow found their way into the packaging and I had been unknowingly munching away on them. That was an excruciatingly unpleasant experience.
A few years later, I was playing Hide-and-Go-Seek with my friends. I had a kick ass hiding spot in the tall grass on the slope of the hill to my back yard. As I was poised in my hiding place, getting ready to run free, I felt a stinging up and down my arm. I looked down to the horrible realization that I had stuck my hand in a red anthill and they were swarming up my appendage by the millions, biting and stinging me to death. I ran screaming for help, shaking my arm a thousand times a minute. I ran by home base and called free on my way into the house to frantically run my arm under the scalding hot water faucet. To this day, if I even see one, lone ant, I start getting itchy as though they are all over me.