Tuesday, July 30, 2013

"The best blood will at some time get into a fool or a mosquito."*

   The mosquitoes tell me I have sweet blood.

   No, seriously though, I’m not kidding. The amount of bug bites I’ve accrued this summer far outweighs anyone else’s. According to my Latino and Middle Eastern and African American friends, mosquitoes like dark meat. As one of the whitest people on the planet, I beg to differ. My legs are shot up and down with heinous, red, raised, circular marks and I have woken up on numerous evenings just to scratch at my ankles and thighs and dump buckets of calamine on my shins. Then I spent a good few days trying to convince my dad (a physician) that I have psoriasis, but he says that people with psoriasis have a legitimate, autoimmune disease and all I have is a slew of fucking gnarly-ass mosquito bites and a habit for peeing in the grass. The mosquitoes may like the dark meat, but THEY LOVE this bitch’s white ass (legs, arms, neck, shoulders…).


   But I think I know why the mosquitoes like me so hard: it’s because whenever I’m outside or near grass, I’m drinking wine. And MOSQUITOES LOVE WINE.

   New theory: mosquitoes are drawn to people who are drawn to alcohol. Game, set, match. Mosquitoes (my friend Michelle likes to pronounce it phonetically: mos-kwi-toes) are alcoholic, asshole insects that only come around in the summer because that’s when we are at our VERY DRUNKEST! Theory. Just a theory. But, come on, right? In the summer we drink outside because it’s lovely, because it’s The Fourth of July, because maybe there’s a sweet concert or a barbeque, maybe there are fireworks, or maybe just because it’s warm. They don’t bite us in the winter because we DRINK INSIDE in the winter. They’d starve to death if they had to wait for someone to drink outside in the winter. Those little shit-head drunks.
A couple of 'skeeters hanging out on my leg.

   I’ve taken to bug-spraying myself everywhere on my body and everywhere I go. I call it “Summer Camp Cologne.” It either gives people wonderful memories or makes them sick: just like any other perfume/cologne. Sorry, friends.

   I HATE insects, as I’ve indicated in previous posts. I’ve spent the summer trying to get over my fear of them (I will talk about this in another post soon). Insects are something "we have to live with." But I just killed a fly with my bare thumb, so something tells me I'm turning a corner on the fear front. Mosquitoes don't deserve to live, nor should they drink anymore of my cheap wine blood.
My legs, covered in calamine and bug bites.
*Not sure how I feel about quoting Il Duce, but this quote is, indeed, from Mussolini. Er...at least he was good-looking?

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