They’re all the rage these days, those blood suckers. I think I encountered one in the wee hours of Monday, and it started my week off on a bloody foot. After all, who really has to deal with mosquitoes in mid-November? I thought a good night or two of cold served as the crucifix necessary to destroy them for another year.
I woke myself at 2:30am banging my fist into the side of my head to dispel the buzzing menace dive bombing it in the dark. Waking and seeing stars at the same time is disconcerting. It contributes much to a sleep-depriving rush of adrenalin, something I had in doses high enough to serve fourteen people.
My arms and legs flailed against the invader. As soon as I became still, it did another kamikaze dive, teasing me, daring me to splat it flat if my blind hands could find it.
Dear Reader, I couldn’t find it. ANYWHERE.
I sighed, forgetting my emission of carbon dioxide was like crack cocaine to the stupid buzzing bug. Three different times, I trudged to the toilet, but the walk didn’t put me in a soporific mood. I read blog posts for the European and South African blogs I follow, even mustering the nerve to comment on Kate Shrewsday’s at 3am. (Kate’s is one of my very favorite reads. I never miss it, and neither should you.) With a defeated sense of futility, I wondered whether the bathroom floor would serve as a bite-free bed.
Finally, I crawled back into bed beside a snoring MTM. He could sleep, because mosquitoes NEVER nibble on him when my sweet blood is on offer. I arranged my arms in the sign of the cross and bared my fangs into the murk. I will destroy you before the sun rises, you undead menace to humanity.
And, I will bear the multiple evidences of your brief life on my face and arms and shoulders and back for days. And days. And days.
Which leads me to my next question: WHY do bites have to itch so freaking much? Shouldn’t their degree of itchiness wax and wane according to the seasons, like the phases of the light of the silvery moon?