Wednesday, September 8, 2010

don't punch girls and we don't punch a clock

I understand that mosquitoes need blood to survive. And with all the meat I eat, I deserve to be a victim somewhere in the food chain. So although I curse and cry and shake my fist at the heavens when bitten, I get that it's necessary.I always thought the miniature biters had some sort of understanding when it came to boundaries. If it's a muggy evening in July and I'm standing outside in shorts and a T-shirt, I'm not surprised when bitten. If I'm camping in deep woods without repellent, I'm downright asking for it. But when I'm in a buzzing metropolis, fully covered on a chilly September night and my derrier gets that familiar itch, a line has been crossed. Have you know shame, you blasted creatures? Do you not know what it's like to sit on an itch for nine hours? How am I supposed to take care of this? Scratching your arm in public, acceptable. Nose, foot, neck, acceptable. Bum, unaacceptable. It doesn't help that my skin has a freakish reaction to your nibbles. Stephen didn't believe me when I claimed mosquito allergy. Probably because I tell him that I think I have throat cancer, dramatically receding gums or polio at least once a day. But when he saw a small planet sized welt on my leg, he became a believer. Again, if it was on my arm, fine. Whatever. But it's not on my arm. I hope mosquitoes are cannibals and get mosquito bites.

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