Why I hate mosquitoes so much

One of the reasons I hate summers in St. Louis...

There you are, sitting outside on your deck enjoying a calm moment of serenity before grilling or right after mowing the lawn. It’s nice weather, warm without being profuse sweat-inducing. But right as you get comfortable, a tiny floating black spec passes by your face. Physically, it’s nothing to worry about. Telepathically, it’s warning you that it could be thirsty and the chances of your blood type being its preferred cocktail are fairly strong.

Unlike most bugs, mosquitoes are pure assholes. They don’t just fuck with you or fly around your backyards and front yards; they are malevolent insects who take our blood and leave our skin itchy. Spanish for “little fly,” mosquitoes leave a calling card that’s more fearful than a riddle or joker card.

In addition to treating our arms and legs like fatty blood banks, they leave a parting gift with their disgusting saliva. It’s this final dessert drop that lingers the longest. Taking my blood is fine; I have plenty, pour yourself a glass. But the saliva kiss before flying away is when I grow Liam Neeson trees of vengeance in my chilled heart. That’s where I turn in Arnold from Commando and reach for the green henley and waves of justice.