No, really: screw the whole species, and every branch of the evolutionary tree that gave birth to them.
I lived in New England, for the love all that’s holy: I know mosquitos!
The ones here in Yellowstone are the sneakiest little bastards I’ve ever encountered.
They fly under the radar and just sorta hover harmlessly, blending into the background…and then the next morning you wake up with roughly 4,350,756 mosquito bites covering your skin.
In my younger days – in the days when I gave even less of a damn about the consequences than I do now – I started smoking cigars simply because the smoke helped to keep the mosquitos at bay.
I gave up the stogies when I left for Europe.
You know what?
I screwed up.
Give me a damned cigar…..no, really, give me one RIGHT NOW!
The stupid mosquitos have decided the “writer-diet” is the new “in thing” and I’m item #1 on the menu. Apparently booze-and-junk-food-laden blood is the way to go for these little bastards.
As I’ve mentioned before, I’ve been writing out in front of the store. That is not working well at this point. Not well at all. Type a word or two…scratch…type a word or two…scratch…type a word…start to scratch, then scream some curse words and storm off.
Nope, not well at all.
Yellowstone is apparently Shoshone for “Mosquito Breeding Ground”.
I’m starting to think my next story is going to be about genocide against these evil little monsters….