I am in a murderous rage.
At mosquitoes. Black flies as well.
They fly in, unwelcome and unannounced, slowly sneaking their way up to me. Then they wait until the perfect moment, the moment where I can't defend myself because I am talking to Mocha, my friend, on the phone for the first time in a month since she left, or I am trying to drag Jekyll the dog away from my neighbor's newly poured concrete. THEN, they strike.
They bite me on the neck, on the arm, on the leg. I scream and swat, and then go in the house and pour water and salt on the bites in an effort to make the itching stop.
Yes, I know you think I am a drama queen. But really, it's probably worse for me than it is for you. Why? Because I am actually allergic to those mosquito bites.
Let's say I am bit on the arm. If I do one absent-minded little scratch, then my entire arm swells up. It truly is a sight to see.
Vile little creatures. I'm plotting their demise as you read this.
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