Tuesday, January 31, 2012

Plague and Pestilence: A Personal Pity Party


Please, O god, tell me WHY I seem to be the choicest piece of luncheon-meat for all things creeping in Austin, Texas. I am never without (at least) half a dozen insect bites/stings/chomps- all of which are in various stages of swelling, weeping, ITCHING and/or profuse bleeding. (The latter is due to the fact that I seem unable to exercise even the smallest bit of self-control and keep from indulging in my most primitive instinct to savagely rake my nails across my bug-bitten skin till both the bite and my dermis are no more.) And, as if this physical torment wasn't enough, I am simply delighted to report that my boyfriend seems blissfully unfazed by the local hexapoda community's pogrom being carried out against me- that is, the bugs bypass his ass and make a *ahem*, bee-line for me. Horrified by of what appears to him to be a mild form of self-mutilation on my part, my boyfriend often threatens to force my hands into oven mitts and then duct tape them shut around my wrists..."for my own good". Ha! I'd love to see him try!

Even as I sit here in my apartment writing this, I catch myself absentmindedly itching what remains of my left shin's skin. I look down to see what began as a particularly pestiferous yet, (at the time of it's conception) generally small insect bite that was (with a little help from me and my grubby little hands) rapidly transformed into an unspeakably bloody trench- one that will no doubt one day become a scar so majestic that I will be able to use it as an icebreaker during my next job interview.