i hate them all and i want them to die

on sunday’s little f.b.c. excursion (i.e. fajitas, booze, and cigars) at beth & bd’s place, post-gram-passing, i was attacked. relentlessly. and i’m still feelin’ it…and that’s not meant in a good way. and it’s NOT from the fajitas, the booze, or the cigars.

you see, i was wearing these shoes i picked up at the nike outlet that can best be described as summer ninja footwear. “summer” because they are undeniably light and comfortable, and most of the top is open (save for the toe cap and an elastic strap) so my tattoos on the top of my feet show. “ninja” because they have a “split toe” design where the big toe is actually separate from the rest of the foot. almost like mittens, but in a running shoe version. due to the foot flesh exposure, and the pools of water now just sitting around here in central texas festering in the sun, we have two issues that make outdoor “fun” not so fun…humidity that makes you almost have to gargle the fucking air before you can completely inhale, and mo’ squitoes.

that was NOT a typo…i meant is. MO’ squitoes. as in more.

and bigger.

some of these little shits have landing lights. some of them even project an in-flight movie…i swear the one last night was showing “mr. deeds” right before it met the business end of the august 2k2 issue of stuff magazine. just ungodly little flying menaces.

and vicious, too.

when i was throwing on my shoes this morning (NOT the ninja ones…first attempt at socks since the assault), i could count 29 bite marks around my feet and ankles. twenty-fucking-nine!!! that’s just plain ridiculous. i don’t know if that area of my body even holds that much blood. and you cross into the thirties if you start looking at my hands…i actually have three on the back of my left hand that for a perfect upside down triangle. i guess that’s where the gay mosquitoes got me.

i hate them all and i want them to die.

mosquitoes, that is. not gays. although gay mosquitoes ARE on the list due to the hand biting…nothing to do with them sucking more than blood or anything. but these little fucks are tough. i swear i saw a couple of them splashing around in the citronella bucket candles smoking a menthol before planting his little blood sucking face dead center of the tattoo on my left foot…right on the black line, and then had the nerve to look up at me and say, “the darker the berry, the sweeter the juice” JUST because he happened to be sucking on black inked skin. they may have beaten citronella, but they can’s win against the palm of your right hand coming down at mach four.

one down.

six hundred and fifty eight billion, nine hundred and eighty four million, six hundred and forty two thousand, seven hundred and eighty three to go.

and that’s just on my block.