Holden and I are both covered in mosquito bites. I catch him sitting there with a puzzled look on his face, scratching the little red bumps on his legs, wondering why on earth such an annoying sensation would be happening and not going away. You got my blood, kid. Sorry.
In addition to the ones on my legs and arms, I’ve got three of them on my back. My back! The small part, where the curve starts. I haven’t rolled around shirtless in any meadows. Hell, I haven’t even really been 100 percent shirtless except in the shower, and if those little twits are getting me in the shower, then they are more dedicated to biting me than I am to not getting bitten. I’ve decided those bites are the result of my audacious decision to sit on the front porch in a slinky, thin shirt for about half an hour the other day. They bit right through that shirt, between the slats of the rocking chair.
I saw this on the Facebooks today and it didn’t make me feel any sort of “woo hoo we’re No. 1” pride for my city. No, it just made me realize how lucky I am that I haven’t gotten a disease from the biters yet. My ex-boyfriend got freaking encephalitis a few years ago from a mosquito (at least that’s what was thought). So it’s not just a scary internet tale.
Time to stock up on the Skin So Soft, which is the only thing that helps, even though it really doesn’t help that much.
Not even kidding, as I was going to tag this post and hit publish, one came up to my ear, sang a whiny little song, and landed on my arm. I am sitting on my couch. In the house. The windows are open but it feels like an imposition just the same.
Grrrrr.