It’s currently 36 degrees inside my house, so I’m outside braving the mozzies. I managed to locate a citronella stick which smells likes it’s working but we’ll know more when the counting of the itchy scratchy welts begins.
Right now, if I had my choice of insects to annoy me, I’d choose a mozzie over these bloody flying ants that have invaded this locale. When I was inside cooking dinner they were crawling through the flyscreen on the kitchen window, getting in my hair (hopefully not in the food) and crawling up my legs. Now they’re attracted by the light of the screen and are crawling over my arms and neck. There’s hundreds of the bastards. And there’s a katydid crawling across my stomach… whoopsie! It just made a dash for the keyboard and was slightly damaged by a space-entering right thumb. It’s still got a coupla working legs, I’m sure it’ll be okay.
People with death wishes keep asking me what I’m doing for Christmas. Again today the ladies at the deli where I buy my lunch hassled me for details (third week running) and again I told them “I’m running away”. This is too ambiguous for them - they want to know where, for how long, with whom and why. So I’m working on a more detailed tale of escape, going for maximum shock value. It should definitely involve sex, booze and rock & roll, possibly a toy boy or a sugar daddy or both, a fast car and three personal chefs. Tales of Christmas holiday amputations, sex changes and live donor bequests will only be told in cases of extreme gullibility, like when the dude from the butcher’s shop dares to ask.
The crippled katydid just bought it in my wine. RIP insecty-thing. Wine okay!
Mosquito Song - Queens Of The Stone Age